


Blemishes

by Verllaine



Category: Political RPF, Political RPF - France 21st c.
Genre: (Because that’s what I write), (But like there’s a lot of angst all the same), (Do English-speaking M&M’s shippers even exist tho lmao?), Alternate Universe - Fashion & Models, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff and Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-09
Updated: 2017-12-09
Packaged: 2019-02-12 09:57:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 25,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12956793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Verllaine/pseuds/Verllaine
Summary: Eight years of hard work have made Manuel one of the most renouned models in the industry.Needless to say that he is far from impressed when CEO Hollande has the bright idea to hire one Emmanuel Macron. The kid is nothing short of a media bubble, a bubble that, Manuel is certain of it, is set to burst at any moment.





	Blemishes

“Chocolatine.”

Well, that caught his attention, to say the least, as Manuel looked up from the book he’d been reading, confused. _What on earth was Jean-François going on about this time?_

“That’s nonsense Jean-François and you know it! It’s always been pain au chocolat and everyone will tell you as such! Hell, you can even ask Arnaud once he’ll join us, but I can tell you he’ll say the exact same thing!”

From where he was seated across the table, Benoît seemed to be a rather fervent advocate for the “pain au chocolat” label, and from past arguments he’d had with the man, Manuel could safely assume that the Breton wasn’t about to give into Copé anytime soon, especially not when it came to preserving pastry naming.

If he were to be honest though, he would have to admit that he’d never really understood the ongoing debate about pastries his colleagues kept fuelling. Perhaps it was simply down to the fact that he hadn’t been brought up like them, having only made the move from Catalonia to France in his early twenties, and was thus missing something cultural to be really able to take a side in the matter.

Not that that would have really changed the way he saw the whole argument. Manuel would be the first to admit that he found Jean-François attempts to convert the whole Hollande’s company to saying “chocolatine” nothing short of ridiculous, and more importantly, a complete waste of time.

Next to him, Vincent merely nodded, silently siding with Benoît, and now desperately looking for support, Jean-François turned to him, perfectly faking the distressed look on his face. “What about you Manuel, please don’t tell me you also say _pain au chocolat_!”

“I honestly don’t see the point in this kind of debate, as far as I’m concerned, you eat the things regardless of what they’re called.”

“Oh come on! This is important Manuel!” And to emphasise his point, Jean-François all but threw his arms up in the air so as to let his desperation known to them all before soliloquing about his apathy towards those who used the label _“pain au chocolat”,_ going so far as to call the latter utter miscreants.

Jean-François was arguably making a mountain out of a molehill, from his standpoint at least, and a quick glance around the table was enough to get the gist that Manuel probably wasn’t the only one to think so, Vincent and Benoît being quick to turn a deaf ear to the Parisian’s ongoing complaint and jump onto something they judged more fruitful.

“What’s Arnaud up to, is he running late?” Curious now about the whereabouts of the Breton’s companion, the elder one leaned in slightly, probably to keep Jean-François out of the conversation.

“We bumped into Alain on the way here and the pair got chatting, I think it was about the currently cheap _Made in France_ ties –Arnaud was almost ecstatic at the news- and he told me not to wait for him, that he would-“

“Speaking of Arnaud, there he is.” Vincent cut hip short, pointing to their missing colleague, his tall and lanky figure awkwardly making his way though the lunchtime rush while trying to balance his tray before he, at long last, joined them, sighing as he took his place next to Benoît.

“What on earth took you so long? Did Alain really have _that much_ to tell you?” His companion tilted moved his own tray over to make space, wincing slightly as the old chair grated when Arnaud made himself comfortable.

“You guys really have missed the latest it would seem! Apparently Hollande’s hiring a new kid in this afternoon’s team, everybody around him is talking about it!”

He’d barely sat down and already Manuel could feel a headache coming, certainly not seeing what his colleague had to be enthusiastic about. New kids weren’t anything exceptional, Hollande usually let one or two take a shot at a job every two weeks or so, it really wasn’t anything special. Especially not when most of those newbies only came with the fixed idea of making a name for themselves, had an ego the size of a small planet, and very rarely were kept on, let alone made a breakthrough. Arnaud and the kid’s enthusiasm would be quickly snuffed out once they would all see him take the same route the past five candidates to have applied here did, and that was to say nothing more than a dead end.

While he himself had made a certain reputation of himself in Hollande’s company (and often wondered why on earth he still hung around here instead of looking for work elsewhere), Manuel did have to admit that the agency itself hadn’t been doing well for a while now. Countless rumours had already been going around calling for Hollande to resign or to sign the company over to someone who would be able to take better care for it, and while far be it for him to even imagine joining ranks with those who held such strong opinions since he owed most of his career to the old man (and perhaps Manuel would even go so far as to say that they both shared some odd definition of friendship after such a long partnership), the likes of François Fillon and his best mates, the two Nicolas’, Sarkozy ad Dupont-Aignan, were certainly quite vocal in their displeasure, the latter having called several times already for an overhaul of the firm’s system, and mainly for a new director.

While he certainly didn’t see how a new kid who probably didn’t know the slightest thing about big modelling agencies was going to change all of that, his close friends definitely seemed firmly set on raving about him, the debate on the pains au chocolats and chocolatine completely forgotten, for now (but knowing Jean-François, Manuel had no doubt that the other man would bring it up whenever he got a chance next time).

“It’s a transfer from some other agency… Amiens, apparently,” Benoît was reading from the open tab in his phone, Arnaud glancing at the Internet page from over his shoulder, “According to the director over there, Emmanuel Macron is a dynamic youngster who has an eye for detail and who seems very in to everything shirt related. Well, not surprising Hollande desperately took a hold of him what with the latest line of high quality jackets that are going around. He’s got the looks despite not having much background anyway, right? What do you make of him, Manuel?”

He turned to Benoît only to have the latter’s mobile phone almost shoved in his face. Already irritated by their infatuation for a self-important nobody who probably wasn’t even worth their time anyway, he all but snatched the device out of the Breton’s hands, ignoring the other man’s half-upset half-fearful glance, before quickly giving the picture a disinterested glance.

Perhaps Hollande’s decision to hire him _did_ have some foundation after all, or at least Manuel understood why the director extended a trial run for the kid, he certainly did have interesting features, especially when it came to sowing off the line of blazers he knew Hollande had been eyeing for a while now. However, now that he was _actually_ looking at him, Macron really looked like a kid: barely thirty-nine, a number of picture with awkward smiles and the few that did grab his attention because of the detail, composition and colours he happened to notice were certainly not something he would be willing to attribute to the kid’s so-called genius, a genius some outrageously had already compared to artists the likes of Klimt or Dali. No, Manuel was willing to bet that someone had done all the work for him and that Macron had just ridden high on the success of it all, never actually doing the hard work himself to earn a name for himself.

“So, what do you think?” The Breton seemed more cautious now that he’d probably caught on to his less-than-amused reaction to the whole story. That and Manuel’s fury was known throughout the agency by now, and Benoît really didn’t want to be on the receiving end of the other man’s ire right now, while he’d been lucky enough to be spared up till now, he certainly wasn’t looking to change that any time soon.

Manuel merely pouted, “I mean, I get _why_ Hollande hired him, but I really _don’t_ see why you all already think he’s some kind of hero or a future artist who demands the same esteem one would have towards a Rembrandt painting. Yes, he’s lucky, he has features that look good on camera and that will certainly be interesting to work with but he’s probably another one of those kids who only sees the name he can make for himself, the fame and glory, but not all the hard work that goes along with it all. He won’t stand a chance with such a demeanour, I’ll give him three weeks, tops.”

And while he certainly avoided saying it out loud, as Manuel eyes the picture again, noticing their colleague’s crooked smile, a smile he could honestly not pinpoint as sincere or merely dumb, he already found himself bemoaning the very real possibility that he might have to work with him in a very near future.

* * *

 

The whole thing had been Arnaud’s (absolutely stupid, if Manuel were to qualify it) idea, the man insisting that nothing would beat a Friday evening aperitif to welcome their new colleague and help him feel at home. Manuel had immediately tried to back out of it of course, but turned out to be unsuccessful, Benoît literally guilt-tripping him into coming along because according to the Breton, it would simply be rude of a big name like himself not properly welcoming their new addition, and that, as his friend, he simply _could not_ pull something like that on him (“Come on, you’re not going to leave me with Arnaud, are you? You know what he’s like when he drinks too much! A small and delicate man like me won’t be able to bring him back to our apartment in one piece by myself!”)

And so he had eventually given in, but Manuel was acutely aware that Benoît had all but taken advantage of their friendship for him to do so, something he would definitely remind him tomorrow lunch time.

And it had been made all the worse since the pair had been quick to leave him behind almost a half an hour ago to make small talk with Jean Lassalle, under the guise of absolutely _needing_ to get some news on the line of traditional shepherd clothing he’d tried to launch earlier that year.

Averse to these kinds of events because he more often than not ended up spending them in a corner by himself because he somehow came off as unapproachable and, according to Arnaud, would make anybody fear the mere _prospects_ of a conversation with him, Manuel merely gave up all pretence of civility and found sanctuary in the corner of the room, where nobody would come looking for him, and with for only company the champagne glass he’d picked up when passing by the buffet on his way in. Escaping the small talk and usual pleasantries that went along with these kind of events didn’t make him any less jealous of Benoît, Arnaud and literally everybody else who happened to be here however, the lot of them somehow able to engage in a proper conversation and have a good time just talking to one another while he was unable to even start one. Tact and the nature human relationships while indeed fascinating in literature, did simply not seem to come naturally to him.

They were for the new kid though. He seemed to have no problem whatsoever making friends out of people he didn’t even know five hours ago, as laughter to his left quickly drew his attention, and there he was, almost crying with laughter between Pierre Lellouche and  Bruno, the taller man going so far as to fetch the newbie a second glass of champagne. The absurd display of admiration (could he go so far as to label it _adoration_?) on part of his colleagues had hand tighten around his glass, the snotty-nosed kid certainly hadn’t done anything to earn it.

However, his initial irritation slowly morphed into something along the lines of curiosity when Macron laughed again at whatever Pierre had said, and Manuel caught himself almost smiling when, as Bruno came up behind their new recruit and tousled his hair, Macron trying to pull away but obviously appreciating his peers’ good nature. He knew what it felt like, had been in the blonde’s shoes about thirty years prior when he’d taken his first tentative steps in the business, a time that seemed long gone now.

Irritation slowly gave away to curiosity as Manuel stayed there, observing the whole scene from a distance. Hollande had definitely found something worthwhile in the kid to hire him on the spur of the moment, and it was now that he could see how casually he was talking to people he barely knew, how the old ceiling lamp highlighted the blonde streaks in his hair, the little pinch around his eyes when he laughed, the way he handled his glass, a strong grip but delicate fingers, and the elegant shirt, while slightly dishevelled but neat-looking all the same, that Manuel slowly began to pay attention to the little details that might have caught his director’s attention.

Of course, this by no means meant that he appreciated him any more than he did when Arnaud had first broken the news to him and Benoît had shown him the little picture on his phone, but merely that Manuel understood and respected his director’s choice.

As a matter of fact, Manuel had yet to actually talk to him. And if he’d managed to get away without uttering a word to him until now, he very much hoped things wouldn’t change by the end of the evening and that he could avoid having to small talk with him.

Instead of letting himself get irritated over something he could no longer change, he instead looked around for Arnaud and Benoît, and to his great regret, the air _still_ seemed to be caught up in whatever they were talking about with Jean Lassalle, and Manuel did very much not want to get dragged into whatever debate they had going on, nor did he really feel like joining the Nicolas Sarkozy-François Baroin and Copé trio. God only knew what they were talking about, but if Copé’s snickers were anything to go by, he was willing to bet that he was making fun of Jean-Frédéric’s haircut once again.

“You’re not hanging out with Benoît?”

Startled, Manuel nearly jumped when Vincent suddenly joined him, seemingly out of nowhere, the elder leaning against the wall, a half-filled glass of champagne in his right hand.

“You know, he’s practical and actually kind of nice.”

Manuel didn’t look at him, but somehow knew this wasn’t Benoît Vincent was talking about.

“He’s still a kid, he’s only here because of his looks, nothing more.” He shot back confidently, as if saying it out loud would actually make it undeniable. It was true regardless: Macron was using this wave of popularity he’d gained as “the little newbie” to create this _frenzy_ around himself, but take the charm away and Manuel was willing to bet that there was nothing worthwhile beneath it all.

“He’s also been dying to talk to you for a while now.”

Manuel choked at that, probably not showing off the classy and refined look Hollande prided from the members of his company and instead of helping him, Vincent merely chuckled as he took another sip from his own glass, seemingly unaffected by the intimidating glare he had coming his way.

“Well he can keep on waiting then. Small talk with him is definitely not something I’m interested in in the slightest.” He said, curtly, hoping it would be enough to get Vincent to drop the subject.

Unfortunately, things definitely didn’t seem to be going his way as the older man seemed to be all but oblivious to what he was trying to imply, instead all but berating his lack of good manners towards their new colleague.

“Come on Manuel, it’s just for this evening. It’s expected of someone with your stature, you can’t just leave him hanging like that. We’re not asking you to go into some deep philosophical conversation with him, just… At least welcome him, it would be the least you could do, right?”

He really would have liked to protest, say no, that he just wished to be left alone, but he’d only just opened his mouth and already Vincent had turned away, Bennhamias catching him by the sleeve of his shirt as he did so, and the pair literally instantly began chatting away. He was almost certain that he noticed Vincent’s lopsided smile though, and at this point, it just irritated him to know the older man had left him high and dry like this on purpose.

He was even more irritated when he turned around only to come face-to-face with none other than Macron himself, the smaller man having finally mustered the courage to actually come over and try to talk to him. Well, he’d had the courage to come over at least, but seemed unable to actually start the conversation.

“So you’re the new kid Hollande wants to hire?” Tired and irritated, Manuel guessed he might as well cut the pleasantries short and get this over and done with as soon as possible. The quicker he got the conversation going, the quicker the younger man would leave him alone.

“Y-yes.” The answer was hesitant, as if Manuel’s obvious annoyance had momentarily destabilized him (good, at least he would quickly understand that his silly little seduction game wasn’t going to work with him). “Bayrou sent me up here for the next few months. Apparently things aren’t going well for Hollande and he reckoned that it would be a good time for me to send in an application. And according to him, driving from Amiens to Paris every day wouldn’t be a very good idea, hence the long contract, hopefully.”

At least he seemed to be polite enough, despite fumbling for his words when he understood the actual scope of Manuel’s position in the business.

However much Manuel might have seen him as calm and collected, Emmanuel had to admit that he was probably anything but. The sheer number of people and the heavy gaze full of judgment and evaluation they all seemed to be sending his way had been both exhausting and gruelling during those first few hours –had it been up to him, he probably would much rather sink into the first comfortable sofa he could find and sleep for two days straight had that not went directly against the rules set by the world of top fashion- and if he were to be honest, he’d noticed Valls a while ago already, but had simply been too intimidated by the man to actually try and talk to him.

The mere idea of talking to him had been as exciting as it had been terrifying.

Making a fool of himself in front of Bennhamias was one thing, but the mere thought that Valls –that was his name, according to Jean-Luc- would have a very bad first impression of him was simply something Emmanuel couldn’t let happen. He still didn’t understand _why_ exactly, perhaps due to some odd sense of esteem or maybe simply because his singular features had certainly made their impact when he’d ignored Bennhamias’ ongoing monologue calling for the legalization of cannabis to try and catch a better glimpse of him, and noticing every detail the other man had on display had indeed been an insanely more captivating distraction.

Of course, the disapproving glare he’d been sending his way hadn’t gone unnoticed by Emmanuel, and the blond could honestly only thank his stars for the dim lighting in the room, or he was certain that the Catalan would probably have noticed the embarrassing blush that had probably spread over his whole face by then.

“I’ve unpacked the boxes earlier, but I do have to admit that the apartment still looks rather empty, perhaps there is something is still missing…”

Manuel, however, didn’t seem inclined to chit-chat in the slightest; he still kept his distances, the intimidating frown was ever present and was keeping as much distance between them as was socially acceptable, and Emmanuel was quick to understand that despite being willing to at least try and set a good start to their relationship, things were already looking strained.

“Look, if I were you, I wouldn’t bother filling the place up with costly furniture, or even move that much furniture into your apartment altogether. A contract like yours is only something temporary, Hollande will probably forward your file down to Poitou-Charente, in Ardèche or some other place and you’ll never come back here even again. You never know with him, especially when it’s your first contract.”

His words were harsh, he knew they were harsh (probably even a little _too harsh_ ), but they hit their mark, Manuel immediately noticing the slight shudder in the other’s shoulders. Besides, he had to be harsh –nobody else would- if he was to be honest with the kid: there were too many youngsters coming here with wild dreams, egos the size of a small planet, who pictured themselves as front covers of the most renowned magazines and brands after only weeks of being here only to end up in tiny little agencies lost in the North of France, never to be heard of again. The comment was meant to help Macron understand what exactly he was getting himself into and how the system worked here as much as to curb any excessive enthusiasm on his part.

“Well in that case, I guess I’ll simply have to adapt. I’m here now, I’ll be here for another while at least, whether some people like it or not.”

_And to top it all off, he had an ego!_

“Well with that kind of attitude, you’re certainly not going to go very far. A piece of advice, you might want to get off your high horse,” And it was almost with relief that Manuel noticed his glass was finally empty, giving him a legitimate reason to finally escape the kid, and leave him to ponder on his words a little, “Hollande doesn’t like arrogant people.” He added before leaving a perplexed Macron behind.

At the very least, he now knew how things worked here.

All Macron had to do was respect the rules and everything would go well.

* * *

 

Except that Manuel was quick to notice that Macron didn’t seem to have a care in the world for his piece of advice.

While they did not share the same hours (to his great relief), the few times he had ventured into the studios he was working in (only out of sheer curiosity of course, and perhaps because he’d also secretly been hoping the blond would humiliate himself in front of the entire crew, would shatter this illusion he’d seemed to have built for himself and see for himself that he was nothing but a stranger who’d lost their way, who hadn’t the slightest business being here at all), he had noticed him making eyes at De Rugy when pleading with his superior for just one more take but with a different angle, he’d noticed his the way he would somehow manage to talk François Asselineau into dimming the lights without even asking De Rugy beforehand (and where was the use in that? What was the point of the showcasing the latest line of shirts if he wasn’t actually going to be on the final rendition of the picture? Some odd kind of abstract art? Manuel could think of a number of schools Macron could apply to if he was merely here to fool around like that), he’d even started to keep track of the times Edouard wouldn’t say a word when he’d gone so far to discard his vest during a break, and Manuel knew Phillippe wouldn’t have hesitated to lash out at any one of them for far less grievous mistakes. 

But he had indeed noticed all of those times they would merely give Emmanuel a pass, had even grown increasingly irritated by everyone’s indulgence towards him because there was no way that anybody would have let him get away with such a behaviour twenty years prior, he probably would have been fired _long_ before reaching such a point.

 In short, all Manuel could do was almost fearfully take note of just how much the Macron virus seemed to have spread throughout the agency, Hollande might have been the first victim, but the parasite had indeed now spread to almost his entire business.

And to have to watch the little… Squirt just _get away_ with it all without anybody seemingly catching on to what exactly was happening now became acutely irritating. The mere fact that this little nobody had come waltzing in here and had gone so far as to take the liberty of changing an entire system, a system that had worked for years, a system that everybody here, Manuel included, complied with, and had even begun persuading a growing number of people to go along with his outrageous ideas was heinous enough, but to add salt to the wound, he was now actually getting _rewarded_ for this noncompliance was nothing short of outrageous.

The only person who seemed to be gaining awareness of the little parasite’s spreading disease was Hollande himself, whom he’d happened to overhear in the middle of a phone call with Bayrou one evening he’d been running late when passing by his office on his way out, a barely concealed plaintive tint in his voice as he was asking his Northern colleague if the little genius had always played that king of game: milking the system for what it was worth without contributing himself in the slightest yet swiping all of the success.

When he’d closed the door behind him that evening, Manuel had felt lighter, certain now that Macron’s days were counted, that his rising popularity would blow up in his face any day now.

Only it all came crashing down the next day when he’d come in early, only to go through the very same circus act, Hollande having obviously decided to let this little number of his go on instead of pulling him aside for a long and overdue chat. He’d let him off the hook, because as much as his disobedience and Macron’s growing tendency to just turn projects into whatever he wanted, since De Rugy often let him get away with it, were undoubtedly grating on his nerves, the results were there: the young man’s projects were working, a growing number of them gaining quite a number of positive reviews and critics and the latest ones even now available among some of the most world- famous publishing agencies.

And Manuel couldn’t do anything about it. Could do nothing but feel sheer jealousy at how easy Macron was having it, at how ideas he’d tried to push through himself ten years ago and had had turned down to his face were now the same ideas Macron was riding his success on. Where he’d been told over and over to not let fame get to him and that whatever name he’d made for himself by no means meant he’d gained the right to push through his own designs, Hollande had all but given him carte blanche to try whatever he fancied, and those fancies very much included a few suggestions he remembered making himself.

Ten years ago, he probably would have laughed at someone telling him a little brat with no name who happened to share his vision of what fashion actually meant in the current-day world would gain fame by stealing his very own concepts and ideas, Manuel would probably have laughed it off. And yet here he stood, powerless, merely a spectator forced to watch his hard work be plagiarized without the slightest comment.

And since he was far too busy feeling exasperated over the whole thing and scare poor Benoît out of his wits when he happened to glare at the younger man, he never noticed the Macron’s recurring sidelong glances when their paths happen to meet in one of the studio’s corridors and merely gave his friendly greetings the cold shoulder, that would probably make him stop eventually.

He hadn’t noticed the blonde’s rather appreciative glances either when he happened to unbutton the top of his shirt at the end of an exhausting day, probably making the most out of getting an eyeful of out of what he happened to be inadvertently showing off, any chance he could.

Nor did he happen to see the embarrassed flush on his face when he’d caught the little Squirt off guard one day, the younger man quickly trying to cover up the fact that he’d _definitely_ been eyeing him by hurriedly annotating a rather decrepit-looking copy of Jules Verne’s _Michel Strogoff_.

No, Manuel had by no means caught on to the massive crush his new colleague seemed to have on him. In his eyes, the newbie was still nothing more than some king of freak show entertainer Hollande had somehow reeled in to his ranks, a freak making nothing more than a sorry spectacle of himself, especially when spending that one hour lunch break by his lonesome, Manuel noticing that Macron had more than once gotten so engrossed in his books that by the time they were due back in studio, half of the kid’s plate still remained untouched. Such absent-mindedness certainly wasn’t about to do him any favours, especially not with Hollande, regardless of what his colleagues kept on parroting.

* * *

 

He knew the instant he noticed Benoît anxiously biting his bottom lip and all but fidgeting about in a vain attempt to quell his nervousness that he probably _wasn’t_ going to like what the Breton was about to say next.

“What is it? I’m not going to bite.” _Might as well get it over with quickly…_ Sighing, Manuel carefully closed over the old Dumas copy he’d been engrossed in for the past half-hour, pretty certain that he wouldn’t be up to getting back into it once his colleague would have given him the bad news.

“Hollande, he…” Amidst his stuttering, Manuel made out an audible gulp _(was he really that intimidating?),_ “Apparently he’s going to need you this afternoon.”

Confused, Manuel raised an eyebrow. Why on earth was Benoît going about with that expression of dread painted across his features as if he’d just been sentences to death or some worse fate if he’d merely come to let him know the director would be needing him for a few extra hours? He knew he could come off as scary to some, but he’d honestly never thought it to be _that_ bad…

The whole story didn’t make sense anyway: Hollande had already given them a tight schedule that Monday, and this afternoon definitely hadn’t been one De Rugy had requested his attendance for one of his projects. And for all of his flaws (and God knew Hollande had many), he wasn’t into last minute changes, never had been.

“So he messed around with the schedules then? I thought we were dealing with the vests tomorrow morning.”

“Well about that…” Benoît anxiously glanced around the room briefly, as if looking for the first exit he could run to to get away from him (which was ridiculous, yes Manuel knew he was far from calm and collected, but by no means was he about to jump Benoît and tear his limbs apart), but merely sighed, probably trying to come up with the a way to break the news as gently as possible to him.

“Actually… He wants you and Macron to share a photo session. Some story about blending old and accomplished with new and modern, embellishing aesthetics and reflecting our current-day social appreciation of art or something along those lines, well you know Hollande, he likes those pompous and fancy phrases.”

Manuel merely blinked.

Blinked again.

And again.

And again.

And only then did the gist of what Benoît had just said sink in: Hollande wanted him and Macron to work together. He wanted him to work with the little newbie, the kid who was almost fifteen years younger than him and whom the entire company was already raving about, all but singing his praises at every turn. The kid everybody was strangely obsessed with ever since he’d set a foot in Hollande’s esteemed company because of his so called extraordinary talents. The unbearable kid who he just wanted to see _leave_ as soon as possible. That Macron right there.

The mere idea of Hollande playing such an uncouth joke on him was so outrageous to him that Manuel couldn’t even believe it at first, merely thinking that it was again one of those bad pranks Benoît and Arnaud, who seemed to be too much of a coward to face the backlash as evidenced by the fact that he was not here.

“With the little squirt? You’re joking, right?”

Manuel only felt his day get considerably worse when Benoît’s sorry face shook “no”, that indeed he was about to be forced to spend _an entire afternoon_ with the annoying little brat, before quickly backing out of the cafeteria, under some pretence that he had urgent business to attend to on behalf of Jean-Luc.

Manuel very much doubted he was telling the truth, but held back from making any snappish comment when Benoît had the decency to send him a look of pity, well aware that he was all but abandoning him to his fate without the slightest support friends ought to give to each other. Manuel wasn’t too sure whether he ought to take it at face value or as the Breton merely rubbing the whole disaster in his face.

Nonetheless, the news had definitely soured the mood, so much that he didn’t even bother to say anything when Jean-François swiped his plate of purée right under his nose, arguing that if all he was going to do was swirl it around with the fork without actually eating it, that it might as well go to someone who _would_.

Vincent, on the other hand, tried to boost up morals, as the eternal optimist he was. Over and over again, he reminded him that this was only for a few hours, that it was merely one session among others, and that he might not even have to work with Macron ever again after that (but still insisted that he was a charming young man and that his whole aversive attitude toward him was kind of unfounded), but it all did very little to change his mind. Manuel had a very clear idea as to what kind of man Macron was exactly, and was pretty confident when assuming that working with him was going to be nothing short of an utter nightmare. Listening to his Parisian’s colleague’s absurd positive spin on the story was merely setting him up for a bigger disappointment.

This afternoon was going to be an absolute disaster, and nothing anybody could say was about to make Manuel change his mind.

* * *

 

Hollande would probably tear him a new one if ever he were to catch wind of him turning up late and on an empty stomach to one of De Rugy’s photo shoots, and could only hope that the latter might show himself to be indulgent by not whispering a word of his lack of punctuality to his superior.

Well, if he were honest, Manuel wasn’t exactly _late_. He’d arrived almost ten minutes ago now, but simply couldn’t bring himself to actually enter the little studio itself, knowing that nothing but an entire afternoon of bitter disappointment, frustration, an on edge photograph and a clueless little squirt who thought too highly of himself were what he would have to endure for the next few hours, in short, not exactly ecstatic prospects. Annoyance at his own dread (no he would not call it apprehension, the squirt was nothing to be afraid of) were what eventually had him going again, Manuel all but slamming the door behind him as he came in, the noise echoing throughout the workshop.

De Rugy’s dressing down came as no surprise, hastily sending him off with a fresh shirt and pointedly telling him that he had thirty seconds and not more to come back, Manuel merely hastily complied without saying a word, knowing he would much rather not find himself having to deal with the brunt of the Nantes resident’s anger for the whole shooting session if he could.

However, while he didn’t say anything, the white-knuckled grip he held the vest he’d just been given told a far different story by themselves.

So did the fact that he all but ignored the blonde’s sorry look as he past him by, knowing better than to buy into this pretend concern of his: he was probably only trying to play him like a fiddle anyway, just waiting for the moment Manuel would lower his guard and all but stab him in the back once and for all, trample him into the dust as he would gain even more success.

Well, Manuel could definitely say he’d make sure it wouldn’t happen anytime soon.

“Have you cooled off yet? Can we actually start working then?” François asked him curtly once he got back, probably taking a jab at the dirty looks he was giving the team, half of which were shaking in barely concealed fear merely being around him and didn’t even dare meet his eye. “All right then, let’s get down to business before we waste any more precious time. So I want you and Macron to stand over there, in front of the grey panel, we’ll try and take a shot and see how Hollande likes pictures with two people instead of one. If he gives us the go-ahead, we’ll send them off for printing as soon as possible.”

As Manuel ignored De Rugy’s attempt to regain control of the situation, obediently heading over to where his superior wanted him to stand, Macron seized the opportunity to, once again, try and get some kind of conversation going. A conversation Manuel most certainly did _not_ want to have with him.

“Look, I’m sorry for earlier. Sylvain and I, we tried to cover for you as long as we could but he didn’t want to hear anything.”

His little admission came as a surprise, to say the least, Manuel certainly hadn’t pinned him as smart enough to actually use all of that superfluous vocabulary he seemed to have to actually _help_ him, but as he got a closer look at him, the Catalan immediately noticed the hastily covered bags under his eyes, the too many layers caked on make-up (that, he did have to admit it, seemed pretty useless for someone like Macron) that barely did anything to colour his pasty face (how long had it been since he’d last had an actual good night’s sleep?), and as they both obediently made their way over to where De Rugy wanted them to stand, he did find himself having to admit that the little newbie certainly had a rare talent when it came to hiding his little blemishes to the team.

De Rugy never noticed the way his hands trembled slightly when the blond leaned on the backrest of the chair.

De Rugy never noticed Emmanuel relieving the itch on his face as he rubbed his eyes like a five year-old when the older man had his back turned.

De Rugy didn’t even notice the (very audible) sound his stomach made when they’d barely been one hour in, and he himself had had a hard time just trying to not grin as Emmanuel’s face turned bright red, the younger man obviously flustered as he tried to make sure nobody had caught on.

Manuel hadn’t had such fun in a long time, and the fact that it had been all due to the little squirt didn’t even bother him as much as he might have thought it would.

So perhaps that was why, when his colleague made a beeline for Durif and inquired into dimming the lights during the short break in the middle of the afternoon, his first reaction wasn’t some kind of irritation.

“Do you think that we could perhaps try and take a low-angle shot? Keep the same black background but focus the lighting on the shirtfront only?”

Manuel wasn’t even surprised when the crazy-haired photograph just went along with it, even though he didn’t understand what the blond was actually trying to do in the slightest: where was the point in the picture if only half of the shirt would show up on it? Instead of having a word with him about it and actually voicing his scepticism though, Manuel instead took to keeping his façade of indifference and watched as the younger man went about shifting everything from projectors to props with passion, something that had been all too rare in his colleagues over the past few years.

_Perhaps he wasn’t doing this for the fame and attention after all?_

“You don’t want to be on the picture after all?”

Manuel looked up only to take a step back, as he came nose to nose with Macron, who had this huge childish smile and was all but _bouncing_ on his feet with excitement at the mere idea of partnering up with him, as if he actually _wanted_ to work with him. And perhaps he was, perhaps he wasn’t just doing all of this to rub his fame in his face, perhaps he really _did_ like his job.

After giving him a curt wave to let him lead the way, Manuel obediently followed suit, doing as he was told as the little Squirt pointed towards the high stool at the edge of the frame. He did raise a sceptical eyebrow however when the younger man came back with a small lamp, crouching down to put it between them.

“What’s that for? Aren’t we using the projectors right in front of us for this? They’ll make the definition of the close-up much better.”

“Perhaps, but you and I aren’t going to be on the final print, they won’t be needing to catch every detail on our faces. Besides, people tend to be too easily swayed by the face of the model wearing the clothes they want to buy, and often end up buying an item because they found the person on the add pretty rather than the clothes themselves.

Of course, we can always do something else if you don’t think this’ll be good.”

Manuel had to admit that was a particular way of seeing things, for he certainly had never considered advertising brands like this. He tended to stay safe, stick to what he was known for and what he knew the clients would like than dare to break the mould, and perhaps it explained why he hadn’t actually worked on the composition and lighting of his pictures in a _long_ while, while repetition had undoubtedly served him well, perhaps it had also killed some part of his creativity along the way.

Nevertheless, Macron was right (and he was slightly disturbed at the fact that admitting it wasn’t nearly as bothersome as he’d made it up to be): promoting a shirt went far beyond merely putting it on, it also entailed actually thinking about which posture would sell better, which background colours would help the item stand out the most and, as his colleague had just mentioned, what kind of lighting they used. And as he span around, the fact that Macron actually _had_ thought about everything became clear to him.

Manuel watched him with something akin to curiosity or admiration (which he would dare not ever admit, of course), beginning to slowly realize that his first impressions had clearly been misleading.  To be sure, he was still riding his wave of popularity and making the most of it, but as he watched the way he looked straight ahead, standing straight, a confident posture against the chair and a genuine and confident smile on his face that would not make it to the final cut, perhaps there was something to work with beneath all of the missing years of experience.

Only his eyes betrayed a hint of apprehension, he noticed, when they happened to catch each other, Macron immediately looking away out of fear he might have irritated him by taking all the decisions… When he could not be further from the truth.

He offered him what he hoped was an encouraging smile (knowing his tendency to somehow come off more gruffly than he usually went for, there was a big chance the other might interpret it the wrong way though), letting him know that he was set to go along with his idea after all, hoping he gave off a more self-assured aura than he was currently feeling. In the midst of Durif’s chaotic instructions and haste to take as many pictures as possible, repeating over and over that it would make it easier for Hollande if he had too many to choose from than if he didn’t have enough, Manuel, used to the director’s chaotic working habit managed to keep things under control, keeping himself straight and not moving an inch, merely trying to avoid the beams of light from blinding his eyes when one of the crewmembers misdirected it straight into his face.

Durif set about to his work, clumsy as always, almost dropping the camera at least twice (and Macron almost lost his countenance because of it, Manuel noticing the young man having a rather hard time trying not to smile at their cameraman’s misfortunes). But the smile seemed genuine, seemed to be a little bit of _Macron_ he was letting in to this model persona they all endorsed when in the studio and all of the while imitation game that went along with it. He might not have been perfectly straight, but he wasn’t slumping over either, his face would definitely not be seen on the final rendition of the image but Manuel nevertheless noticed that he was careful as to what expressions exactly he was making, his sleeves might not have been perfectly rolled up but they merely participated to making the picture more authentic to the average man this campaign would be aimed at, for he knew that this immaculate image the clothing industry was desperately trying to sell was utter nonsense, and was certainly not something their prospective clients could see themselves in. That the blond had _actually_ thought about it all, down to the very fine details while Manuel himself did have to admit that tiny little items were sometimes overlooked on his part definitely attested to a lot of thought and hard work, so much that he momentarily set aside the prejudices he’d previously been holding against him since his arrival.

Perhaps there was some artistic intellect beneath him playing up his popularity and continuously charming half of the staff, and in the heat of the moment, Manuel was almost willing to acknowledge that he’d misjudged him.

“Oooh! That play of light you have going on almost looks like magic beams from the Virgin Mary’s interplanetary spaceship! It looks really great!”

The pair of them shared a look, Emmanuel almost bursting out laughing at their utter cluelessness as to what to answer to Sylvain’s most peculiar comments.

And when he understood that Manuel wasn’t about to bite his head off if he dared utter a sound, he even went so far as to take a discreet jab at the curly haired man, and while Manuel, for his part, tried to keep his comments as neutral as possible, when the Northener went on to pick at Durif’s spaced-out hairstyle, wondering if it really was why Sylvain had taken to referring to himself as “the Great Monarch” and a “Cosmic Christ”, he had to feign a cough to cover his laughter.

Perhaps Macron’s company wasn’t _that_ bad after all.

* * *

 

For his part, Emmanuel was thrilled to see things looking marginally better between Valls and himself (he probably could call him _Manuel_ but, truth be told, he still didn’t dare). He had been rather intimidating, that first time, having seen him look genuinely happy and having to keep himself from laughing when he’d taken a few liberties and made a few comments on Durif’s attire had certainly been a change from the gruff and severe authoritative senior figure he cut in Hollande’s agency.

And as he gradually got to see more Manuel in Valls, in the way he held himself, in the way he always seemed to have a certain elegance about him, and even the touch of humour he indulged in over the strange man from Bugarach (and that’s when he noticed the first _genuine_ smile, and if Emmanuel were honest, he did have to admit that he wouldn’t mind seeing it more often), the more the initial admiration he’d held towards him from afar seemed to morph into a full blown crush.

So much so that when Sylvain eventually called it a day and Emmanuel actually found himself having to snap out of ogling his exhausted colleague, embarrassed and very aware that what he was feeling for Valls in the bottom of his chest definitely went a lot further than mere friendship.

Well, it looked like he’d just gotten himself into a sticky situation, to say the least.

* * *

 

The bitterness of the hot coffee was doing wonders.

As soon as Durif had let them go, Manuel had made a beeline for the little cafeteria on the ground floor, immediately apologizing to Benoît, who had obviously decided to wait for him despite him running late, and wo had even gone so far as to have a small plastic cup of coffee waiting for him.

“Thanks for that, you didn’t have to though, you know? You could have just headed home.”

“Eh, I wasn’t going to leave you behind”, the Breton shrugged, “Besides, I think Arnaud planned on spending the evening in front of something along the lines of Pimp My Ride, and I do have to admit that I’m not the slightest bit interested. I wouldn’t have said no to Master Chef, it might even have given us a few ideas for next week, a change from the galettes I’ve been doing for the past five days, but if you’re asking me to spend three hours watching people getting their cars revamped, no thank you. Especially not when I know full well that Arnaud won’t share the pot of _caramel au beurre salé_ or the _kouign amann_ I offered him for his birthday with me.”

Not one to watch TV in the rare slots of free time he had, rather using those few and far between reprieves to read lyrical literature masters such as Dumas, Rimbaud or Chateaubriand, Manuel did however have to admit that the picture Benoît was painting, of the little Breton tucked under Arnaud’s much taller frame, the pair of them huddled together beneath a warm blanket as they shared a box of _galettes de Pont-Aven_ and watched one of those French TV shows Arnaud had a particular fondness of did conjure a smile.

“Perhaps you should get going then, he might be waiting for you.”

“Are you sure? I can give you a lift home you know, it’s on the way…”

Benoît really _was_ too kind for his own good. Again, Manuel refused, arguing that he just wanted to get a breath of fresh air before heading home, for while Durif’s session had indeed been a success, it had also been a lot more taxing than he’d initially thought it would.

As soon as the younger man left, the oppressive silence seemed to hit him full force, and what had up till then been a warm and rather cosy workplace suddenly seemed to be stifling. Manuel didn’t think twice before heading for the staircase leading to the roof, noticing the light coming from under the door of Durif’s office (the poor man, what on earth could he still be doing here at this hour?), and took them two-by-two, the whiffs of winter air filtering through the poor isolation all but drawing him outside.

And the blast of fresh air hitting him square in the face as he opened the door was more welcomed than any air conditioning could the studio might have had. While the biting cold that had befallen the capital city might have bothered him few hours ago, it was definitely something he appreciated now, weary after working for twelve hours straight. Not even the buzzing of the Parisian cars, that didn’t look much bigger than little ants hustling about from up here, seemed to be bothersome (and Lord knew how grating they could get when rush hour came about), and when he felt his shoulders all but slump forward in fatigue, he couldn’t even bring himself to correct his position –De Rugy probably would have given him another sermon about it had he been here, but given that his superior was long gone, Manuel didn’t really give it a second thought. Besides, what De Rugy didn’t know couldn’t hurt him, right?

The buzzing of a speedy taxi below snapped him out of his trance though, Manuel following it as it sped up the road, beeping at a pair of pedestrians who happened to cross out in front of it, before eventually coming to a halt at the red lights at the intersection ahead, or at least, that’s what Manuel guessed it would be doing since half way up, he finally seemed to notice the other lonely figure in the corner, at the other side of the roof.

Having not yet switched out of the grey shirt he’d been wearing earlier, Macron seemed to have also sought refuge up here for a while, since he was leaning on the railing, eyes passively following the cars flying by below, a silent contemplation of the frenzied nightlife of the capital city. The Parisians hasty lifestyle didn’t seem to bother him however, the blond merely repeating the same back and forth movement as he watched an old Renault or gleaming Mercedes  hurtle it’s way down the road. Not that Manuel didn’t get the drivers’ haste, it was past ten o’clock, anyone would be looking to get home as quickly as possible at this hour.

Or at least, anybody but Macron, who didn’t seem to be about to make tracks anytime soon. Well, if he stayed like that, his hands would likely be frozen solid before the clock struck midnight, given how pale they looked, and he thought for a moment that were he to merely touch his nose, gone pink with the breeze, it might even fall off.

Only the slight tremor that ran down his spine betrayed his discomfort.

“Shouldn’t you be out here with something a little warmer that a shirt?”

Macron all but nearly jumped out of his skin as he turned around, Manuel having obviously bust the younger man’s idyllic bubble. Panicked now, there went the image of the perfect little boy he always tried so hard to sell to everyone when inside the studio, and, if he were honest, as he came over to the balcony, Manuel was rather satisfied to have finally dented a hole into the perfect mask the other constantly bore.

“Do you often do this?” He asked him as he too, leaned over, noticing a black taxi going through a red light.

“What are you doing here at this hour?” Emmanuel stopped himself from flinching back as the other man’s fingers momentarily brushed the sleeve of his shirt, already embarrassed at having been caught off guard by his colleague. “Isn’t everybody gone at this hour?”

“Do you often come up here? Just, you know, to watch the city?”

And far be it for him to say it aloud, but Manuel was _genuinely_ interested in what the other had to answer.

“Sometimes… Usually at the end of the day, especially after working with the likes of Fillon. I think it just because I initially wanted a little time for myself, but then it became sort of a habit I guess.”

“Even in the middle of winter when it’s minus five outside?” Although he kept his tone light (it was, after all, not meant as some kind of harsh criticism) Manuel raised a sceptical eyebrow nevertheless. Of course taking time for oneself at the end of the day was something he could relate to, after all he often liked to do, but when reading books, not freezing himself out here in the cold. “I’m sure that Paris has a lovely view and all that, but do you think it’s _really_ smart to come up here in the middle of winter?”

Macron at least had the decency to look sheepish, scratching that place behind his ear like he’d noticed him doing when the younger man was embarrassed, a nervous tick of sorts, and found himself slightly disconcerted when, instead of the usual annoyance he would have expected to feel in regards to the Northerner’s antiques, instead he was overcame by a wave of worry at the sight of the other man’s light figure, shaking with cold in nothing but his light shirt. And before he even knew what exactly he was doing, he found himself shrugging out of his coat and offering it to him.

Manuel kept telling himself all the while that he was only doing this because it was the decent thing to do, that anyone in his shoes would do the same.

“What are you-?”

“You can hand it back to me in the morning,” He cut him off short, knowing that if Macron went on with those long winded and incomprehensible monologues of his, Manuel just might take the coat back from him. “Wouldn’t want to be catching a cold in this weather would we?”

He awkwardly took the offered item, not daring to meet him in the eye as he did so, and the Catalan couldn’t say for certain whether Macron’s face went red due to the embarrassment at the whole situation or simply because the cold was beginning to get to him, now biting the tips of his ears. He looked down at their hands when, in the space of a mere moment, he blonde’s frozen fingers grazed his own, before looking back up again to come nose to nose with the biggest smile he’d ever seen, one like a parent probably would see on their five year-old’s face on Christmas morning. (Why it was there, however, remained a complete mystery to him: he’d merely given him his coat, nothing extraordinary, certainly nothing worth that. And he was willing to bet that anybody else would have one the exact same thing had they been in his shoes, merely because it was just the decent thing to do).

A quick look at his watch let him know that it would soon be eleven o’clock, and guessing it was as good an excuse as any, he thus bid his colleague a good evening, offering him what Manuel hoped to be a warm smile (because _maybe_ he didn’t hate him all that much after all) before heading back to the stairwell.

However, as he was about to take the first step, he didn’t miss the whispered _“Thank you”_ hanging in the air behind him.

He smiled, just a little.

“See you tomorrow, Emmanuel.”

* * *

 

It only fully hit him when he’d made it to the bottom of the stairwell and closed the door behind him, but Valls had actually called him by his _name_.

It might not have meant much to anybody else, but for Emmanuel, Emmanuel who turned a bright shade of red anytime the other man happened to catch him watching him, Emmanuel who took interest in the fact that the Catalan seemed to enjoy reading the liked of Jules Verne, Alexandre Dumas and Honoré de Balzac when De Rugy was merciful enough to grant them a full hour and a half break, Emmanuel who had taken to cherish the tiny polite “good evening” he would sometimes give him before heading home, to that Emmanuel it meant a lot.

At this point, his initial admiration of Valls had definitely taken a completely different turn. Could he even still name it as such when he felt warmth spreading in his chest at a mere half smile from the other? Could it still be called mere admiration when he felt embarrassed, at lunch time, when Valls happened to (again) catch him staring at him from across the room, Emmanuel almost certain that a mere glance was all it took for the other man to read fully read him?

What he felt towards Manuel (could he even take the liberty to call him as such? Emmanuel would have liked to think so, especially since Manuel had called _him_ by his name) man was nothing short of overwhelming, and when, in the middle of the night, he happened to conjure up a familiar figure, tall, perfectly dressed, prominent veins running down the length of their hands, salt-and-pepper hair and sharp eyes, Emmanuel had no doubt that he was now well and truly _fucked_.  

And the worst part of it all was that it didn’t bother him in the slightest if he were to be honest with himself: he had a crush on Manuel, and, even if nothing real ever ensued from it, he was willing to go down with the damn feeling.

* * *

 

Ever since the shirt incident, Manuel somehow got into a habit to wait for Emmanuel every Friday evening, and then on Mondays, Tuesdays and Fridays until it simply became an odd sort of routine. Sometimes he might have finished sometime mid-afternoon, and on those days, Arnaud often suggested he tag along to the local cinema or the theatre to come and see the latest drama piece, sometimes it was even an invitation for a few rounds at the blowing three blocks down, but each time Manuel would give him the same answer, a refusal, because waiting for Amienois friend next to the old coffee machine had somehow become more important to him without him ever really noticing.

If he were asked where it all started, he wasn’t even sure he’d be able to give a truthful answer, but suspected it went back to that time Emmanuel had been talking about _The Circus_ , Seurat and all of the neo-impressionistic style, and without really meaning to, the pair of them had debated on the merits of the whole movement until well past eleven that night, Manuel gradually uncovering the depths of his colleague’s passion for the arts, which went far beyond modern clothes and high quality brands.

On Monday, Emmanuel had actually given him his own detailed analysis of Paul Gaugin’s _White Horse_ (and also deplored his lack of horse-riding skills while he was at it, which did earn him a chuckle), on Wednesday, they ended up debating on romanticism and the place it’s values still held in society and the arts in their day and age after Manuel had brought in Dumas’ Count of _Monte Cristo,_ it was only at eleven o’clock the following Thursday that the pair noticed that they’d spent well over four hours going into Jean-Paul Sartre’s philosophical and literary legacy and after two weeks of the pleasant chats, Manuel wasn’t too sure whether he felt more eager to actually work with Emmanuel or whether it was those never ending conversations he was more looking forward to once De Rugy would let them off the hook. At any rate, there definitely did seem to be more to the little squirt than a kid who knew about the odd painter here and there, since he happened to have an extensive taste for literature, especially Machiavelli, Stendhal and Camus, who he held in high esteem, which was fully understandable of course, they were after all, all very respectable authors.

And it had been a long time since Manuel had actually had such meaningful conversations with anyone, it so it came as no surprise really that his colleague was slowly but steadily growing on him.

De Rugy’s past bleak, monotonous and repetitive shooting sessions didn’t seem as dull anymore. For instance, that time Hollande had gotten a commission for a vest with golden-coloured shoulder pads, Emmanuel had suggested that instead of De Rugy simply going for the average mid shot, he could instead try and take a shot from the side, much like Vermeer’s _Girl with the Pearl Earring,_ and when one of Hollande’s contacts working for a Swiss agency sent them the latest fashionable trench coats, Manuel was thrilled to see his colleague actually suggest they work outdoors, of a mind that something along the line of Friedrich’s _Wanderer above the Sea of Fog_ might meet their client’s expectations. This partnership now went far beyond merely working together, Emmanuel’s use of classic paintings to showcase the pieces they were sent had set off a good natured rivalry between the two of them, each one trying to argue whether they ought to take inspiration from Seurat or Rubens, which colours and motifs would look better if they were to work in studio and any cliché coming out of sessions really had become the fruit of a carefully thought-out process they both contributed to. Although Manuel did find himself having to admit that sometimes Emmanuel’s far-fetched ideas and passionate pleas to De Rugy probably went a little too far, he couldn’t for the life of him stop himself from flying to his rescue whenever he did find himself lacking in conviction.

There definitely were ups and downs, as Emmanuel soon learnt, bitterly, and Manuel had had to explain to him that it just went with the job –that sometimes you’d have good days, and sometimes you simply wouldn’t- that anybody, including people with decades of experience, could still make mistakes and that it was better to take a lesson out of De Rugy’s criticism than let it get to him (it was nearly something contradictory, to see someone who outwardly looked so confident and had come in that first day parading like he owned the place actually have so little self-confidence), that his at times scathing remarks could be hard the first few times but that he’d learn to just roll with it (he too, could still remember how badly he’d taken the first times people had given him negative feedback), that he had to if he was hoping for Hollande to keep him on.

For while their success was definitely something personal for the both of them, Hollande too seemed to be very pleased at the wave of success De Rugy’s pictures were having, having called both Manuel and Emmanuel into his office to let them know that they would indeed be working together over the next few weeks, for a list of other businesses had apparently contacted him with a certain number of requests, and Hollande certainly wasn’t about to miss out on his rising star’s popularity and ride the wave, of sorts, so as to make a few good deals here and there while it lasted.

Three months ago, back when he’d only taken him as a little nobody who was only taking advantage of his popularity in the agency, Manuel would have no doubt resented him for the buzz he seemed to effortlessly be able to muster around his person.

But now that he’s actually seen for himself the evident work Emmanuel actually put into each photo, having sometimes popped in when the younger man was working (another habit he’d picked up when Hollande’s subpar agencies didn’t need him), and having a first seat in watching the making of what he knew were good pictures, even having a say in them since Emmanuel actually _was_ quite receptive to the criticism and suggestions he’d occasionally given him had truly been something Manuel had enjoyed. He still wasn’t entirely sure when exactly the professional relationship they’d started off at had morphed into something more along the lines of a collaboration of sorts (and could he actually dare go that extra step further and actually label it _friendship?)_ but after a few months of the sae routine, he was rather fond of the particular relationship he and Emmanuel now shared, for it certainly went beyond the average friendship one would have with a colleague, and Manuel could for definite say that his relationship with the blond was nothing like his relationships with Arnaud, Benoît or even Vincent.

Two weeks ago, he’d even offered him a meal out at the local Italian restaurant under the guise of it being an opportunity for them to get back their talk on Renaissance art (Emmanuel had initially refused, or rather, he’d tried to convince him to come to his place instead, arguing that cordons bleus would be just as nice), and Emmanuel had actually used the momentum to give him back _The Flowers of Evil,_ profusely apologising for unfortunately tearing one of the pages covered in fading annotations.

Manuel had merely told him not to worry about it as the server had brought them two carbonaras, that he actually quite liked his collection of old books, most of whom the pages were merely hanging in by a thread, that he would much rather own famous copies with their own stories than the newer editions artificial gleaming plastic covers, of a mind that the first kind, with their individual history visible through each printed letter inside, somehow had their own identity, something he simply couldn’t quite grasp with contemporary rereleases.

Emmanuel had still offered him a brand new copy of the book the next morning, and didn’t want to hear anything when Manuel tried to argue that two torn pages really wasn’t worth all of the hassle he’d gone to.

“ _Your_ book is still the one I damaged, and I wouldn’t want you to have a damaged copy of Baudelaire in your bookcase.”

Manuel hadn’t sought to argue any further, merely accepting the gift, but only on condition that Emmanuel would actually come around for dinner at his place, promising to cook him whatever he liked as payback.

And so they both spent that evening in the living room of his humble apartment, around a plate of cordons bleus, red wine and talking Salvador Dali’s surrealism well into the early hours of the next morning. And Manuel would be lying if he were to say that he had an ounce of regret showing up to work the next day with noticeable shadows under his eyes and spending the next ten hours trying to cover up any yawning from De Rugy’s critical eye.

(He even found himself having to pretend coughing when, during one of the brief breaks, Emmanuel snickered behind their superior’s back, to hide his laughing).

(Later that evening, he also joined him on the roof of the building again, neither one of them really saying anything much, instead contemplating the fascinating panorama of Parisian nightlife in a companionable silence).

(And he even found himself defending him the next Wednesday, when one meter sixty-six Nicolas complained once again that Emmanuel was merely chatting up their superior to and win his favour in so that he could be kept on).

He might still have been stubbornly turning a blind eye to it, but it would have seemed that Manuel had indeed ended up appreciating Emmanuel, and that he hadn’t the slightest clue as how exactly he ought to deal with that newfound endearment.

Asking Benoît or Arnaud for help was, of course, out of the question, Manuel knew full well that a mere whisper of it to the pair of them would be enough for the news to spread through the whole agency like wildfire, and that was a crisis he very much wished to avert.

Things between Emmanuel and himself did seem to have gone further than he’d initially intended for them to.

And that certainly hadn’t been something he’d entirely planned for.

* * *

 

“I thought you would have headed home after De Rugy’s comments about the bags under your eyes.”

And when Emmanuel span around, Manuel really had no problem seeing where the other man was coming from, the blueish hue under the Picard’s eyes betraying more than one night’s worth of lack of sleep, and for a moment, he even wondered why on earth the younger man was still hanging around when it was obvious he would be better off catching up on whatever sleep he’d missed. And as is that wasn’t enough, the bugger was almost half frozen, as testified his red nose, his lopsided scarf covering his arm more than it was protecting his neck, and his pink fingers: perhaps his initial pegging of him as a little child hadn’t been so far-off after all.

The most absurd in it all was that it didn’t seem to bother him all that much, given that Emmanuel merely shrugged, as if he’d been asked what Hollande’s daughter’s favourite TV show was.

“You really are looking to get sick dressing up like that, you know?”

No, Manuel definitely wasn’t about to tell him that he was _worried_ for him. It was merely friendly concern, the same kind he would have given to any other one of his colleagues had they done the same thing.

(Except that Manuel knew that, beneath it all, it was just a stupid cover up, that the only person he was fooling here was himself).

Emmanuel, for his part, just shrugged (according to him, the fresh air of the Parisian nights was actually quite pleasant). It was he took a step closer that Manuel noticed that he seemed to be a lot more laid back than during that initial session they’d shared, and the fact that the younger man seemed to not only have gotten used to but actually also appreciate his company did draw a tiny smile, one that nonetheless remained to the other hidden behind his scarf, one he hoped Macron wouldn’t notice.

Or perhaps he _was_ hoping he’d notice it.

For while Manuel certainly had gained quite a flourishing vocabulary after years of reading the likes of Dumas and Céline, it came as quite a frustrating admission for him to say that none of those authors had made it easier for him to have a better grip on words. Or more exactly, that despite the vast descriptive passages, metaphors and intricate work of letters he’d had a chance to read, none of them had particularly helped him when it came to expressing what he himself was feeling when the opportune moment presented itself to him.

Such as right now, for instance: he was still looking at him right in the eyes, but couldn’t come up with the exact words to actually express his concern. Of course he was worried for him, dressed like that when out in the bitter cold, but what he really wanted to say felt like something that went far beyond just that, it was something much more personal Manuel simply couldn’t find how to tell him. For all that he certainly was an avid reader of classic literature and all the fancy words that one would expect to find in Hugo and Balzac’s work, the impressive diversity of the words he’d had an opportunity and the whole art of using the French language he’d spent more than a few nights carefully analysing, his hard work seemed all for naught, since simply getting across to Emmanuel that _yes, your wellbeing does matter to me_ seemed far more difficult a task than it should have been.

Which was probably why Manuel opted to look away, off to the Eiffel Tower in the distance, ever looming over the Parisian city, fearful of damaging what little progress they’d made together.

“’You all right, Manuel? You don’t look too good, I can go down and check if Hollande doesn’t have anything he could spare if you want.”

“No, no thanks, I’ll be fine.” He tried hard not to flinch when the younger man’s gently took hold of his coat sleeve, despite not being able to feel much beneath the fabric.

A light gust of breeze picked up the bundle of dead leaves that had ended up here earlier in the day, sending them up high into the air, over the cars and bikes speeding down the main street, some of them crunched under inattentive drivers, others ending their course by the side of the road, at the doorstep of one of the cafés that still seemed to be open at this hour, and some were even picked up by the city pigeons, the birds scampering back to the safety of their nests in the blink of an eye.

“All that coming and going, looks a little like the _Starry Night,_ doesn’t it?”

“Well, according to the stories, Van Gogh did start using more colours in his work after a trip to Paris.” Manuel noted, eyes now locked on a couple on their way out of a restaurant, the young woman sneaking in under her companion’s arm (and perhaps, _just perhaps,_ his eyes darted to the left for a second, _just_ to see whether Emanuel had also happened to notice them too or not). “Paris is also where he met Emilie Bernard and Henri Toulouse-Lautrec, his first real friends.”

Emmanuel smiled. Manuel, likewise.

Neither one of them noticed how their hands had somehow ended up intertwined. Perhaps it just felt normal.

“I’m glad Hollande kept you on after all.”

He really looked at him this time, and even offered him what Emmanuel deemed as a genuine smile, a smile he couldn’t do anything other than give him an equal one in return. Manuel appreciated having him around. _Manuel had actually enjoyed talking with him. Manuel wanted him to stay._

_Manuel was happy to be here, with him._

“Me too.”

He felt more than saw Manuel’s hand closing around his own, offhandedly noting that it, again, felt _normal,_ as if they’d been made to fit together, to create something brand new right under their eyes, something they created together.

The picturesque image of their pale hands against the dark railing, Paris all lit-up in the background, almost gave him the urge to push things a little further, an almost morbid curiosity as to just how far he could dare to go.

However, a quick glance to his right and to Manuel’s serene features stopped him in his tracks almost immediately, Emmanuel was far too afraid of ruining this… _Very special something_ they’d slowly been working on in his haste to push things any further.

And so he didn’t utter a word, keeping those feelings he was desperately trying to quell for himself.

Such ludicrous thoughts probably hadn’t even crossed the other man’s mind, Manuel was far too calm and collected to let his own feelings overwhelm him. Were Emmanuel to tell him everything right on the spot, right now, nothing short of a ruined friendship would come out of it, and the mere thought of his own inability to deal with his feelings potentially ruining their friendship for good was far too steep a price for the Picard to even dare and broach the topic.

No, is was much safer to remain at something merely platonic, and besides, Emmanuel was certain the stupid crush wouldn’t last anyway, he’d just have to deal with it while it lasted, and what with everybody telling him over and over that he was a smart, intelligent and pragmatic young man, these stupid feelings would definitely disappear in a matter of weeks, and everything would go back to normal.

Furthermore, he very much doubted that Manuel would ever want to hear even the slightest hint about the more than friendly feelings he felt towards him anyway.

* * *

 

Emmanuel was thrilled.

Eyes still glued to the paper Hollande had just given him, he didn’t even notice the odd and confused looks Benoît, Arnaud and Manuel were giving him as he joined them at the table.

“Well, you’re not going to make us wait forever now. Come on, spit it out!” The Breton encouraged him. “There’s got to be something on the paper for you to be grinning like that.”

“Hollande wants me to tag along for a three week advertisement thing in Seattle!” He pointed to both his and Hollande’s signature at the bottom of the page, confirming the trip, before going on, “Apparently, there’ll be agencies from all over the world, it’s an entire international event!”

The piece of paper quickly went around the table before it landed in his hands, where Manuel finally got the proof that Hollande did indeed intend to bring Emmanuel along with him over the other side of the Atlantic. And the younger man was obviously taking it very well, the mere prospect of it all was already _seething_ with excitement at the thought of it: the possibility of a major breakthrough in his career was now a tangible aspiration he could actually make come true instead of a mere distant dream, anybody in his shoes right now would probably be as excited.

Well, anybody but Manuel.

Well it wasn’t exactly the way he would have put things. He was still very happy at the success his younger colleague might gain from the trip (and for all of Hollande’s flaws, he _did_ have to admit that he had a very sharp eye, and sometimes did manage to find the rare gem among the piles of applications his company received), and guessed his lack of enthusiasm merely stemmed from the fact that Emmanuel’s new status and his impending trip overseas would mean that throughout it all, he’d be once again by himself, and that while it really was an opportunity for the blond, it might also come with him flying away from the nest, of sorts, and leaving him, the old and accomplished veteran behind.

It was stupid, probably even selfish of him to see it that way, to immediately see in Emmanuel’s new status nothing short of a drastic turn of events, but he simply couldn’t help it. Eight years of hard work, and Manuel was pretty certain he’d learnt everything there was to learn about the job, and one of the first lessons had been that nothing was ever given nor guaranteed in the world of fashion design. While he still had a certain status in Hollande’s agency, he hadn’t had any major uplifts in his career in some time. Emmanuel on the other hand, this was only beginning for him, and it was very easy for an inexperienced youngster to get caught up in the personality cult once they became a phenomenon. Manuel would have liked to warn him, to tell him that if he wasn’t careful, the career he was dreaming of might just end up shattered at his feet, nothing more than a broken illusion.

However, he simply couldn’t bring himself to do it when he saw the pure joy he was having at finally being accepted in Benoît and Arnaud’s small inner circle of friends. _And besides, this is his first time, you’re not going to go and ruin the whole thing on him now, are you?_

It was only when the clock struck eight o’clock and that Emmanuel was about to follow the director into the sleek black BMW that Manuel, almost despite himself, held him back by his coat sleeve, not feeling entirely ready for the looming companionship of morose solitude he’d be getting quite acquaintance with over the next few weeks.

“You won’t forget to call, won’t you?”

And he silently prayed for the slight tremor in his voice to go unnoticed, or that Emmanuel at least have the decency to brush it off if he did.

Far too excited to even pay attention to it, the blond merely laughed off his concern, solemnly pledging like a five year old would that he would go so far as to give him a call every evening if it was what Manuel wanted, but that the twenty odd days he would be gone would probably fly by anyway, Sylvain’s busy schedule not really affording them the luxury of much time to themselves to cool off.

The younger man did get a smile out of it, and Manuel tried turn that tiny fragment of time into a memory, something he could keep for himself, something he could turn to in the upcoming weeks, just in case the constant solitude ever started to wear on him, for he had no eagerness to be reaquaintanced with the feeling anytime soon if he could find a way to put it off, not when he’d just gotten used to the evenings shared with Emmanuel and the grand classics of art and literature.

Perhaps it was precisely that imminent solitude that pushed him that tiny step further, and before he even knew what he was doing, he found himself giving the other man a hug, indulging in a rare public display of affection.

“Here, you can also take this.” He added as he undid the scarf around his neck, handing it over to him, “It might come in handy, apparently Seattle isn’t the warmest of places at the moment.”

Well, it would seem that his colleague’s departure was hitting Manuel harder than he’d expected it to.

* * *

 

He’d known the moment word had reached him of his imminent departure that he would miss Emmanuel, but sixteen days in and Manuel was finding it utterly unbearable.

This was the fourth time now that Benoît had had to all but _drag_ him to De Rugy’s studio for yet another day spent trying to sell the damn local brand of T-Shirts, and Manuel didn’t think he could take much more of it. He certainly wasn’t here to criticize their clients products, but when seeing the list of types of pictures the firm was looking for, always the same, never an ounce of creativity, there was absolutely _nothing_ alluring about the order, and certainly nothing he could use to even try and turn it into something fun to work around.

And with no Emmanuel and his uncanny ability to talk De Rugy into making a few changes here and there, he was pretty certain the grey-haired man wouldn’t even want to hear a word of what he himself had to offer, and six hours enduring dazzling projectors and their director’s incessant critics were so draining that when he finally felt lenient enough to offer them a break, Manuel merely sunk down onto the first bench seat by the wall.

As usual, Benoît, Arnaud were quick to join him, Vincent close behind, precariously balancing four plastic cups of coffee in his hands. At the rate things were going, Manuel felt he was probably going to drain the entire machine dry if he was hoping to get through the day at all.

“Have you guys seen the latest? Emmanuel seems to have made a bunch or friends over in Seattle.”

Manuel raised an eyebrow in an attempt to come off as disinterested, but did have to admit that he rather was, given that this was the first he was hearing from the younger man. Emmanuel certainly hadn’t thought to send him the slightest message since he’d landed in the United States at any rate.

(And far be it for Manuel to ever admit it out loud, but it did kind of sting).

“I don’t really see what we’ve got to be envious about though: the headache inducing bright lights and the conferences that Hollande will drag him along to only because it will reflect rather poorly on them if they don’t go certainly don’t look appealing to me,” Benoit commented between two bites of a _palette Bretonne,_ “He’ll come back so worn out he’ll never want to leave the country again.”

“No, no not at all: You’ve got it all wrong, he seems to have made lots of new pals!”

Sceptical, Manuel reached for Arnaud’s phone, taping on the Instagram album the American agency had put online for the event… And after a minute of scrolling down, it was with a pang that he was forced to recognize that Arnaud was actually telling the truth. Emmanuel did indeed pop up on the odd snap here and there, and seemed to share most of his (sometimes drink and party-fuelled) evenings with quite a number of young men around his age, namely the English Ed Miliband with whom he shared bacon sandwiches over lunch, the Canadian Justin Trudeau, who seemed to have offered him quite a number of bottles of maple syrup and the Irishman Leo Varadkar, having shared some kind of fish and chips alongside him at the end of the day more than once.

It wasn’t the pictures in themselves that bothered Manuel, what upset him more was the fact that both Emmanuel and Miliband seemed to be intently discussing some book (and zooming in, said book happened to be something by T. S. Eliot, but the title itself was unreadable), and he could _feel_ the same passion and the same infatuation in the sheer look of his younger colleague that he’d noticed when Emmanuel had rambled on incessantly about why André Gide and his literature was so dear to him a few months ago. It was the fact that, pointing to a beautiful rendition of _The Night Watch,_ he saw the starry-eyed look Emmanuel was giving Varadkar. It was the fact that he’d taken his own free time to visit the Frye Art Museum with Trudeau and had actually went so far as to frame the snapshot with the paintings from the museum itself that stung.

It was the fact that Emmanuel seemed to be carelessly sharing little moments Manuel had thought special to just the two of them with people he barely knew. It was seeing how Emmanuel was bastardising what they’d built together the first chance he’d gotten that hurt the most, far more than the blonde’s silence. It was the sinking realization that what he’d thought they’d had was nothing special, that Emmanuel merely did it with anyone, that truly drove the fact that perhaps he’d just been reading too much into things hit home.

Sooner or later, Emmanuel would get tired of him, and the Northerner would go on to find companionship with some other fine young person his age, leaving him behind with nothing more than the tortuous knowledge that he would share what Manuel had thought special to them only with somebody who wasn’t him.

It was stupid. He knew he shouldn’t let such insignificant little things get to him, but Manuel simply couldn’t look at any more of it, the photos under his nose all but mocking him and his belief that what he and Emmanuel wad been on their way to sharing had been reciprocated by the younger. He wasn’t about to have it rubbed in his face any longer.

Abruptly, he stood up to take his leave, ignoring the Vincent and Benoît’s repeated “Where are you going?” and “Manuel, what’s the matter?” and vain pleas to draw him back. Grabbing his empty coffee cup, tight grip distorting the light carton he tossed it into the trash on his way out, slamming the door behind him in what was probably an unnecessary demonstration of frustration.

If Emmanuel was going to take their relationship lightly, then so be it. Manuel certainly wasn’t about to fall for it.

* * *

 

Benoît and Vincent were smart enough to not dare approach his foul med with a ten foot poll for the rest of the afternoon. The Breton did try and to squeeze in a small “good evening”, but merely ended up scampering off without further ado when all he got in return was Manuel glowering at him.

It was as he stepped out of the studio that he felt his phone going off in his front pocket, and his foul mood only worsened when the caller happened to be none other than Emmanuel… Just his luck, of course it just had to be him. He’d been gone for two weeks already and he could only be bothered to give him a call _now? Was this some kind of stupid game he was playing with him?_

Manuel shoved the phone back into his pocket, resisting the urge to actually read the message, tugged his coat around himself a little tighter and hurried home to his apartment, the few people he did happen to come across very quickly understanding that it was better to get out of his way. Under other circumstances, Manuel might have felt guilty and ashamed of his teenage crisis-like behaviour, but right now, he was far too on edge to really pay attention to it.

The sheer silence of his Parisian apartment was almost stifling, and Manuel was rather dismayed to realise that the first thing he noticed when turning on the light and shrugging out of his coat was how _empty_ the place felt. There was something missing from his humble flat for him to really be able to call it his own place, for him to call it home, and try as he might to pin what exactly it was as he turned on the kitchen cooker and emptied what was left of the pappardelle into the pot, he still wasn’t closer to pinpoint what exactly was missing when he strained the pasta over the sink ten minutes later.

The food turned to ash in his mouth, the light sprinkle of spice utterly tasteless as his eyes darted languidly over the copy of _The Storm of the Sea of Galilee_ he had hanging on the wall right in front of him. He could only foster bitterness and resentment towards Emmanuel as his eyes glossed over the fine details Rembrandt had thoughtfully given the many characters, characters he felt a kinship with, Emanuel having left him in a similar situation, adrift and bereft. Only they at least had a life-saving light guiding them forward, there was a little light at the end of a long dark tunnel for them whereas he had nothing, nothing save for ethereal memories he now had the leisure to torture himself with, knowing all too well that whatever intimate nature they’d hat for him had been born out of his own delusion, Emmanuel merely doing the exact same things with literally anybody he happened to meet.

Manuel knew should have expected it though, an old hand like himself had nothing on Trudeau’s bright and brilliant personality, he couldn’t ever hope to compare to Miliband’s good hearted nature, he didn’t have those charming and engaging traits like Varadkar, and when looking at the big picture, it came as no real surprise really that Emmanuel, young, smart, and who still had his whole career ahead of him Emmanuel, had left him behind, had gone looking for something better elsewhere.

What could he possibly have on them anyway? They were all of the same generation, shared the same dreams and aspirations and notorious names. Why had he, even for a second, even thought he could rival the likes of them? How had fooled himself _that_ much?

Next to his wrist, his phone started vibrating again, a call this time: unsurprisingly, another one from Emmanuel.

Manuel didn’t bother to pick it up.

* * *

 

Hollande had been very pleased to see that this three-week business trip to the United States had turned out to be quite fruitful for them. He’d literally been bubbling with excitement before even getting on the flight home, which Emmanuel had to admit was a rather amusing sight to behold, the president of the esteemed agency looking like a child who couldn’t contain their eagerness to open their presents on Christmas morning. He’d even let it slip to him that thanks to this little detour in Seattle, he’d landed managed to negotiate not just one but perhaps _three_ new contracts with agencies holding world-wide fame.

Well at least that would get Hollande’s company to be at their full capacity.

But while Hollande was certainly effervescent at the prospects of landing a number of new contracts, Emmanuel, on the other hand, was utterly exhausted. They had landed not two hours ago, and the remainder of the journey in the car seemed to be interminable, the engine’s continuous buzzing cutting short any hopes of catching up on the sleep he’d sorely missed out on while in Seattle.

He had tried to get hold of Manuel as soon as they’d landed, but the other man had yet to answer him and Emmanuel didn’t really dare push things any further. Perhaps he too was catching up on sleep, De Rugy could be utterly extenuating sometimes too.

It was as they were heading into the home stretch that the time difference, the Seattle late dinners and the constant noise and buzzing about that had been part of the whole three-week routine seemed to get to him, Emmanuel hoping that leaning on the cool car window might quell the growing headache he could feel coming.

He knew he oughtn’t to be complaining: he owed his extended contract entirely to Hollande, and this trip to the United States had only been a way to secure it, and if there was one good thing he could take away from it all, it was the few friends he’d made while he was there.

And while their company had definitely made the whole hustle and bustle worth it, Emmanuel could say for certain that he wasn’t looking forward to meeting with the proud, arrogant and provocative Donald Trump again, and could only hope that Hollande would be merciful enough to not have him work with the bleach-blonde haired man anytime soon. He had very little interest in hearing of the wonders of Mac Donald’s, his English friends Nigel and the venting of the Minnesota golf course being the place to go for _the best_ cocktails in the country while trying to escape his very tactile (Donald seemed to have a real obsession when it came to those tiny grabby hands of his) and invasive behaviour.

It was as he’d forced himself to politely listen to his ongoing rant about the unfair diets the American company were seeking to impose that Emmanuel had had to really stop himself from whisking his phone out right there and then and give Manuel a call.

_Manuel._

Now that was someone he was actually looking forward to coming home to.

He would probably have to apologize for not keeping his word, since he hadn’t called him like he’d promised, but his schedule had been utterly full, to the point that when he did get home to the two-bedroomed apartment Hollande had rented for them, he’d merely crashed down onto the bed and slept for six hours-straight. The American director, while passionate about the job, had been exceedingly demanding, and given that this whole thing was not only his first time with an international producer but by doing this, he was also putting the reputation of Hollande’s entire business on the line, Emmanuel simply couldn’t afford to make any mistakes, especially not ones that would be avoidable with a little sleep.

Now that that was all behind and dealt with though, his sole priority was to see Manuel again.

He politely took leave of his director, thanking him for the three weeks in Seattle and politely nodding when Hollande let him know that he was giving him tomorrow off if he needed it, watching him trudge down the road in the other direction until he turned around a corner, and disappearing. Parisian nightlife was still a-go it would seem, since Emmanuel, too tired to actually pay much attention to the traffic, narrowly missed being knocked over by a hurried taxi when ending up too close to the road, the sharp sound of the driver’s claxon had him nearly jumping out of his skin when the care narrowly avoided grazing him as it sped by.

Trying to keep a watchful eye out throughout the two blocks he had left to make his way down, it was just past eleven when he finally made it to Manuel’s apartment.

No, not his own, Manuel’s. Mainly because Emmanuel was dying to hear from him and because he simply couldn’t wait until tomorrow to offer him the small package of snickerdoodles he’d managed to pick up for him. (And if he were to believe Justin’s word, they really _were_ nice).

He knew that eleven o’clock wasn’t really an appropriate time to come knocking at his place, but he’d missed Manuel so much that Emmanuel couldn’t bear the thought of going home without at least trying to drop by the Catalan beforehand.

And that was how he ended up, out of breath, in front of door number four hundred and ninety-three on the fourth floor, anxiously waiting for it to open after having knocked, a suitcase ready to burst in one hand and a slightly damaged package of biscuits in the other, the plastic parcel precariously slipping from his grasp.

A short moment of silence and the door finally opened, Manuel’s definitely overtired face peering through the ajar door. The elder almost looked surprised to see him.

“Emmanuel? What on earth are you doing here at this hour, shouldn’t you be at your own place?”

He’s been about to answer no, that he really didn’t think him coming here (and maybe even sleeping over) would bother Manuel, it wouldn’t have been the first time either, and that he’d come as fast as he could, but something in the other man’s expression stopped him short, Emmanuel having noticed the hint of coolness in his voice.

“I… I thought you wouldn’t mind if I dropped in for a minute on my way back. We barely landed an hour ago with Hollande, I came as quickly as I could.”

Manuel still hadn’t moved from where he stood in the doorway, and Emmanuel was quick to notice that the Catalan didn’t offer him to come in, the first hint that things perhaps weren’t as well as they seemed to be.

“And you think come and bother me eleven o’clock at night? Don’t you have someone else you can hang out with? Oh, I don’t know… Perhaps _Leo,_ or _Ed,_ or _Justin?_ You seemed to be really great buddies with them.”

 _Leo, Ed and Justin?_ What on earth was he on about?

He took a step back, feeling the barely concealed rage in Manuel’s tone as if the other man had physically hit him across the face, and it was with dread that, when he looked up again, that he noticed that the brunet was still looking daggers at him.

“Manuel? W-What… What are you on about?” He really _was_ at a loss, and despite wracking his brain in a vain attempt to find some dirty trick he might have played on him while in the United States, Emmanuel honestly couldn’t come up with anything warranting him such brimming ire. Confusion was quick to give way to a growing panic, Emmanuel feeling his heart beat frantically in his chest at the possibility of the situation getting considerably worse. “What did I do?”

Far too upset at his little game of playing the innocent and taking their relationship for granted, Manuel abruptly slapped away the tentative hand his younger partner tried to reach out to him, no regards as to how he might take it. Emmanuel had all but _asked_ for this to happen as he’d consciously posed with Varadkar in that museum or when he’d been laughing with the Canadian as the pair had been sharing a very affectionate-looking conversation over Victor Hugo’s _Les Misérables_. 

He even wondered for a second if Emmanuel had chosen the book on purpose, tried to provoke him with the title. Well, his little stunt had paid off at any rate, Manuel had been _absolutely miserable_ during his absence, and even more so when he’d finally gotten the pictures of the little parasite, having the time of his life and laughing like nothing else mattered to him, not even the continuous silence he’d been giving him since his departure. If that had been what he’d been aiming for, the little blond could be proud of what he’d done.

“You think I didn’t notice your silly little game? The lingering hand on Varadkar’s shoulder when you two were in front of a Delacroix, almost sleeping on Trudeau’s knees when he was serenading you with those Verlaine sonnets, or the lopsided grin you kept giving Miliband after one of your many evenings down in the _Fitzgerald Café?_ That phone call you’d promised me quickly went out the window, didn’t it?”

“No… Manuel n-“

“Oh _come on_ Emmanuel! If you’re going to lie, at least _try_ and come up with something better than that!” He shot back, feeling exceedingly close to slamming the door to his face, for Manuel couldn’t care less about whatever pitiful excuse he might come up with. Emmanuel and him had nothing special, the youngster had all but confirmed it by doing what he’d thought special and uniquely _them_ with his new English and Irish pals (all the while standing far too close to them), and it had been when he’d fully realized it that the initial anger and frustration he’d been feeling vanished, leaving in their wake the deep raw wound. ‘I really _had_ thought you were going to take this seriously you know-”

“Manuel, _please!_ At least let me-!”

 _“No!”_ And he wasn’t about to let himself get talked into it, if Emmanuel was only now realizing what exactly he had done, well that was on him, and Manuel couldn’t muster up an slimmer of sympathy towards him. He’d taken their relationship and what it meant to him lightly, like it was nothing, and now he could very well deal with the consequences: in no way did Manuel appreciate someone toying with his feelings like that. “No, I don’t want to hear your sorry excuses, and you can keep your biscuits too.”

“Manu-“

But Manuel simply didn’t want to know anything about it, and cut him off before he tried to come up with some half-arsed justification. There _was_ no justification, as far as Manuel could see it: he hadn’t bothered to send him the slightest message during his two-week trip, if he’d truly meant something to him, then surely Emmanuel would have kept to his promise, right? Surely he would have been quicker to send him a small text than to get a rise out of him by snapping picture after picture as he all but fell onto Trudeau’s knees if he truly cared about him, right? That’s what he had done at any rate, sent him messages, because his word was something Manuel held dearly.

Emmanuel, for his part, couldn’t care less about keeping his word. His word meant nothing to him, just like, it would seem, their relationship. He only had himself and his irresponsible and volatile behaviour to blame for landing them both here.

_“Get out.”_

“What?”

“You heard me, get out, _now_.”

And just to show him how serious he actually was, Manuel didn’t move an inch and looked him firmly in the eye, having to keep his cool so as to not let himself be affected by the other’s tears. _He’d asked for it. This was all Emmanuel’s fault. He didn’t have anything to feel guilty about._

Emmanuel didn’t look to argue his case any further, especially not to an irate Manuel. Before he lost the last shred of dignity and broke down in front of him, taking flight seemed like the much safer option, and without further ado, he scampered off, breaking down only once safely outside the apartment complex, where no one could see him.

Manuel didn’t come after him.

* * *

 

It was only when he awoke at three thirty-five the next morning after having not slept a wink that Manuel got a moment to actually reflect on the words he’d used the previous night, and notably came admit that perhaps losing his temper like that had been a mistake on his part. A _big_ mistake.

Nevertheless, he could settle his differences with Emmanuel tomorrow. A good night’s sleep would do them both some good, and he was certain that they’d be able to talk things through during a quick break or over lunch. Things would be better after that.

* * *

 

Except that two weeks had gone by and it was as he came back to his apartment utterly drained on the Wednesday that Manuel realized he’d yet to find it in himself to actually talk to Emmanuel.

* * *

 

And when the clock struck ten in the evening on Sunday that fourth week, Manuel did find himself admitting that he wasn’t all that fond of the heavy silence that had somehow taken up a permanent residence in his home.

* * *

 

“You and Emmanuel aren’t talking anymore? The kid hasn’t eaten with us in a while now.”

A forkful of spaghetti in one hand, Manuel looked up at Vincent’s question, perplexed. He deemed it safer to not say anything however, merely raising an eyebrow when noticing that the Suresneese hadn’t finished.

“I happened to bump into him on my way here, he was just settling in at one of those tables in the cafeteria with a book, didn’t seem all that pressed to join the queue at the canteen.”

Manuel looked down and bit his lip almost despite himself, his grip around the cutlery tightening probably a tad too much, and didn’t dare look up, not entirely ready to have to face the judgment he’d undoubtedly read in his colleague’s features and certainly not looking to bring up the argument he’d had with Emmanuel anytime soon if he could help it.

“What did you do this time, Manuel?”

Looking to his left sharply at the accusation dripping off Arnaud’s lips, Manuel all but looked daggers at him, almost offended that his friend would jump to such conclusions in the blink of an eye.

“What on earth makes you say that I necessarily _did_ something?”

“Maybe because of the mopy look Emmanuel’s been giving everybody an eyeful of for nearly a month now?”

Well if that were the case, Manuel had to admit that he hadn’t really noticed, probably because he’d put as much distance between himself and Emmanuel as possible since his embarrassing blunder at his apartment, not sure how he ought to go around trying to make it up to him, especially given that his oratory skills were far poorer than his. It was stupid, probably even prideful on his part, but actually talking to him would only make matters worse between them, it was much safer to keep things as they were for the moment at least.

“We had an argument… And I might have been a little too harsh on him.” He offered up, because it was probably true, Manuel knew full well that he’d let his ugly jealousy get the better of him and hadn’t even given Emmanuel a chance to actually explain his side of the story. All things considered, he was probably just as much to blame, if not more so, in this sorry mess he’d landed them in. “We’ve taken a little time for ourselves for the moment, but if Hollande wants us to keep working together, then we will.”

He was a professional, Manuel knew he couldn’t let his personal problems he had outside of what happened in De Rugy’s studio affect his performance, and if in the upcoming weeks the latter was going to ask him to work with the blond (something that he thankfully hadn’t asked of him yet since Emmanuel’s return), he would have to oblige him, knowing that there wasn’t really much else he could hope to do if he wanted to keep his job.

Putting his entire career in jeopardy because of such a measly little thing was a very stupid thing to do, and regardless of what he might have thought of it personally, Manuel certainly wasn’t about to let the likes of Benoît or Hollande notice that perhaps this break up was hitting him harder than he was letting on: a rather stoic and pragmatic man, he knew he couldn’t let it get to him when facing Du Rugy and Durif’s camera, or he’d be sent packing.

Despite his trying to look at it logically though, dinner in his apartment had become quite a solitary affair with no Emmanuel around (and whose company he’d somehow gotten used to over their shared dinners at his place), staring down at the grand rendition of _The Storm on the Sea of Galilee_ hanging across the table certainly didn’t help make up for the emptiness he felt inside, his apartment having become somewhat too big of a space for him to fill it by his lonesome. Echoes of his own footsteps would follow him into the kitchen, a new normal he was still having trouble trying to get used to when only two weeks ago, Emmanuel’s incessant chatter on art and literature ranging from the Middle Ages to the few recent best sellers had been a much more pleasant melody to listen to as he would have been going about cooking them up something warm.

Bereft, his heart clenched as he opened the fridge only for the half empty package of _cordons bleus_ to almost jump right up at him, the unmistakable blue carton immediately drawing his eye, and with it came the not so distant memory of a blond youngster avidly devouring the re-heated frozen and complimenting his culinary prowess leaving a bitter taste in its wake. Perhaps that was why he took hold of the carton and crossed the kitchen, letting it slip out of his grip into the trashcan, the dark blue box against the grey plastic piecing together a morn reminder of something he could no longer have, of something he’d ruined because of his untimely short temper.

Waking up the next morning to an empty chasm to his left was nothing short of tortuous, but ironically, the Catalan was quick to remember that he had nobody to blame other than his own person for inflicting such pain on himself, he’d been the one who had unfairly pushed the Picard away in a perfect demonstration of sheer jealousy after all. Emmanuel and himself had awoken in his own double bed, side by side, only once, a Saturday morning after the younger man had  drunken the wine he’d offered them to excess, and Manuel, fearful of a potential accident happening were he to let him drive off by his lonesome, had offered him to stay.

Nothing grand had actually happened (not that Manuel would have minded had it been the case), he’d simply offered him his bed given that he had been his guest and that it was merely good manners to see to their comfort first, and Emmanuel had indeed accepted, but only if he shared it with him, feeling guilty of depriving him of a goods night sleep because of etiquette and good manners. He’d initially hesitated, knowing that what they’d been about to do would probably go beyond the boundaries of one’s average platonic friendship, but when’d he’d awoken the next morning to an arm slumped over his waist, he couldn’t in all honesty say he’d really regretted it.

It had happened once, and once only, and it was only now that things seemed to be well and truly over between Emmanuel and himself that Manuel became aware of all of those (seemingly innocent and trivial) domestic moments they had shared together, little moments he could picture any average couple he’d come across on his way back from work in the evening doing, that he truly missed them.

It was something Manuel had never shared with anybody else, but had very quickly grown fond of it, knowing that it was very unlikely that it would happen with someone else.

It was something his inability to keep control over his unfounded jealousy had smashed to bits.

A whole month without bringing up Salvador Dali’s surrealism, Alexandre Dumas’s romanticism or just talking Hegel with someone he _knew_ understood and appreciated the sheer magnitude and depth of his philosophical greatness just as much as he did had begun to make their absence in his day-to-day life felt. And even had he wanted to talk to him about it, they hadn’t shared the same schedule for a while (and Manuel suspected Emmanuel must have had a word with Hollande about it, his director wouldn’t have passed up on their successful dual sessions otherwise). It had been hard to come to terms with when he’d first realised it, that Emmanuel no longer _wanted_ to work with him, but when looking back on the harsh unfounded accusations he’d hurled to his face, accusing him of disloyalty and carelessness, Manuel couldn’t really resent him for it.

He still missed him though. Going back to the dismal routine he’d been accustomed to before he’d arrived at the agency and the lonely evenings he’d spend with for only company the old books of his old library not exactly comparable to the moments he’d shared with the Picard.

He’d hated Emmanuel the first day he’d set foot inside the agency, but now it so happened that daily life without him was nothing short of heartache.

* * *

 

If Manuel wasn’t letting the break up get to him (or at least, certainly didn’t let it come off that way), it was a whole other story when it came to Emmanuel.

Going on a month of waking up alone to what had become a cold and austere bedroom, his drive for his work gradually dwindled down to the point where he was almost forcing himself through the same routine day after day. Passion and enthusiasm for De Rugy’s sessions were fading at what should have been an alarming rate, and he’d been utterly unable (and perhaps unwilling) to find someone else to share the intellectual conversations on De Vinci and Rimbaud he’d had with Manuel, not even Sylvain managed to fill the gap, and God knew the strange man was a talkative one. That and it turned out that avoiding the Catalan had eventually become as tortuous as it was necessary.

He just couldn’t bear the thought of even being near him, and the few times he’d had the misfortune of bumping into him (and scurrying off just as quickly) or noticing him at the other end of the canteen, at his usual table with Vincent, Benoît, Arnaud and Jean-François, while he’d squatted a meagre corner alongside Nicolas and Jean-Frédéric, Emmanuel had ended up spending the entire hour just looking at him, the way he spoke, the way he moved, trying to figure out what on earth he seemed to be so passionately defending all the while admiring the fine lines of his well-sculpted profile, so engrossed in his admiration he only noticed that Nicolas had swiped his portion of fish right under his nose only after the latter had scarpered off.

Not that he would have eaten, he hadn’t been in the mood to eat anything much recently anyway, so much so that he eventually skipped dropping by the canteen altogether, of a mind that the more he could avoid Manuel, the better. (Were Hollande and De Rugy to ever find out, they would probably give him an embarrassing dressing down, but at this point, Emmanuel really couldn’t care less).

Instead, lunch time had become a rare reprieve he could use to read, away from prying eyes.

De Rugy’s seemingly never-ending sessions were getting harder and harder to get fully involved in, the photographer having already told him to pull himself together more than once during the three hours on Tuesday, and had even gone so far as to send him home, under the guise of “if you’re not going to hold yourself straight or listen, you can go ahead and be pig-headed at your own place, where you won’t be wasting my time.”

It had been the first time he’d actually been sent home.

Five months ago, he probably would have unnecessarily panicked, ill at ease with having possibly irritating his superior, but given how the past weeks had gone, he’d reached a point where he could no longer bring himself to care. And the no-longer-caring was making even showing up to work seem like a monstrosity of a task, Emmanuel falling into a monotonous routine he would force himself into knowing he needed this job if he was hoping to get enough to live off at the end of the month –not that that had much impact on it all, the had been numerous evenings he’d come in too tired to even cook up anything at all.

His evenings had turned dull, his nights, sleepless, the empty space in the bed beside him a stark reminder of the one person he’d not so long ago hoped would one day fill it, or at least, he might have had Emmanuel not stupidly screwed things up.

Needless to say, it wasn’t exactly the life he’d imagined for himself when he’d left Amiens.

And if he were honest with himself, Emmanuel knew that what he was doing didn’t even qualify as a healthy lifestyle at all.

And any hope he might initially have had for things to improve quickly dwindled down to nothing when Manuel still hadn’t spared him the slightest word, the weight of the other man’s cold indifference adding to his already lack of self-care and merely sending him down a destructive spiral he could no longer see a way out of.

At this point, if Emmanuel had been asked to concisely sum up how things were going, he would have bluntly said that he didn’t think he could take it anymore.

* * *

 

“You really _should_ talk to him, you know.”

Sighing, Manuel set the carton cup of coffee down, mentally preparing himself for yet _another_ one of Vincent’s sermons. De Rugy having been particularly demanding today, he really wasn’t in the mood for it, having already let the Suresneese know he would have much rather spent the evening in company of Hegel’s _Critical Journal of Philosophy_ than his own.

But he knew, in his gut, that the other man was probably right. It was useless to keep on lying to himself, and it had been a while now that Manuel had come to terms with the fact that he did indeed very much miss Emmanuel, that he did indeed need to talk to him ( _really_ talk to him), that he did indeed need to clear things up between them and potentially end their relationship if that was what Emmanuel wanted (for that very legitimate choice was entirely justified, especially after what Manuel had pulled on him, even if the prospects of it happening were indeed upsetting).

“I know.” He eventually muttered, giving him again the usual answer, the answer he’d promised himself to actually follow through on but never had, firmly sticking to the theoretical part of mending things instead of getting down to the nitty-gritty reality of actually making an attempt at reconciliation. Giving it a shot though had somehow become too much of an angst-inducing course of action to take, Manuel having now managed to firmly convince himself that whatever he tried, Emmanuel would merely shut it down, and seeing that one tiny chance at getting back what they’d had squandered down to nothing was too much to risk.

Were Emmanuel to reject him, were he to actually say the words out loud, it would be final, there would be no coming back from it, no miraculous second chance to work on.

And having already come up with every scenario conceivable, his short temper and lacking elegance in the art of speech having also had always screwed up each tentative (and perhaps Manuel also felt himself underserving of a second chance, perhaps he had deserved this pathetic solitude for only companion). Imagining himself screwing up was one thing, actually doing it and damaging their relationship for good was another thing entirely, and it was _not_ something Manuel was willing to jeopardize.

“No, I _don’t_ think you do actually.”

The urgent undertone to Vincent’s words didn’t go unnoticed, Manuel feeling something _very uncomfortable_ nestling deep in his stomach and expecting the worse.

“You _really_ need to have a word with him, at this point, you’re probably the only one he’ll listen to anyway. Otherwise, it’ll be too late for you to actually _do_ something about it and Hollande’s going to be sending him off to the nearest clinic for health problems.”

“The nearest clini-? _Are you serious?”_

Hollande had only taken such course of action very occasionally, and it had usually been for very serious cases, usually having to do with conditions the elderly section of his employees, those close to retirement age, were concerned. Not a sub group Emmanuel was joining anytime soon, since he was barely thirty-nine. But if Vincent judged it possible that the CEO himself might have to intervene, potentially sending the Picard off to the hospital by force and perhaps even having to send him packing, things were definitely far more serious than he’d initially thought them to be.

He swallowed, hard, the know in his stomach only tightening further when it fully hit him that he very likely was partly to blame for this. Emmanuel wouldn’t be at this stage had you not gone off on him.

 _Emmanuel wouldn’t be two steps from ending up hospitalized and maybe fired if you’d actually listened to him. And it’s all_ your _fault._

“Is it really that bad?” He hated how his voice trembled, despite him anxiously biting his lip in a vain hope that it quell the uncertainty it carried, and the obvious dread his features were probably betraying. Manuel even feared Vincent’s answer, the unasked question about the extent of the problem something he wished to know just about as much as he feared the verdict about to fall.

He hoped Vicnent didn’t notice his trembling hand, his worried, nay near _frantic_ state having turned them near-white.

“Benoît tried to convince him to tag along for lunch with Arnaud, unsuccessfully, apparently he stood him up. And from what he told me, apparently De Rugy’s make-up artist if finding it harder and harder to find him shirts that won’t end up floating on his frame and make him look ridiculous in frnt of the cameras. He’s still unearthing small sizes since Emmanuel isn’t exactly tall, but he won’t be able to do it for long.

I know you’re probably not going to like it, but at this point, Benoît and I think you’re the only one who can talk some sense into him, otherwise Hollande is really going to have no other choice _but_ to send him into the firing line. We _all_ know he cannot, on a moral level, keep an employee who is deliberately making themselves sick.”

_Shit._

_Shit. Shit. Shit._

Keeping his distances so that they could sort themselves out by themselves was turning out to have been a _massive_ mistake on his part. Rather ironic, given why Manuel had decided to do as such. He’d wholly accepted the uncouth words he’d accused the other without any real basis (because one ought to always take their responsibilities), but still hadn’t been able to bring himself to face Emmanuel, face his anger and his rancour, of a mind that it would be easier for him to move on if he obligated himself to confine to some form of solitude.

Emmanuel hadn’t made any further attempts to try and talk to him after that either, and Manuel had merely came to the conclusion that the blond had merely seized the opportunity to cut off all ties with him, which was nothing less than he deserved. It had been difficult to come to terms with, to see first-hand everything that they had been fall to pieces because of a misunderstanding on Manuel’s part, misunderstanding that he had blown out of proportion. However, the fact remained that the fate of what was to become of them rested entirely in Emmanuel’s hands. And the fact that he hadn’t uttered so much as a word since that fateful evening at his apartment said it all.

_What an idiot._

And, as it happened, Manuel wasn’t exactly sure whether the insult was directed towards himself or Emmanuel. (Probably the both of them).

Of course he’d been acutely jealous when seeing those pictures of Emmanuel, Justin, Leo and Ed having fun together, over the other side of the Atlantic, while he’d been stuck here. Of course he’d been jealous to see Emmanuel share something he’d thought uniquely _them_ with other young men his age, as if completely unaware of what it meant to him. Of course he’d (despite himself) assumed the worst when every message he’d sent him had gone unanswered week after week, but him letting this deceptive jealousy get the better of him and poison his words, and now seeing the extent of the damage they’d caused… No, Manuel had never, not even for a second, intended for this to happen.

And the mere thought of what the past weeks had been like for Emmanuel, the sheer solitude he must have forced upon him only had him feel an irrepressible urge to tell him how utterly _sorry_ he was and hug him tightly as the pair of them would snuggle beneath a warm blanket, his head resting on his shoulder.

Or at least show him how guilty he was over the whole thing, how sorry he was to have hurt him that deeply and make him understand that the sick undertones the blond must have taken away from his unjustified anger and then exaggerated were just that, undertones, undertones that went far beyond Manuel’s initial intention.

First thing first though, if he wanted to help him, he would need the other man to accept his apology first, and Manuel honestly couldn’t even begin to imagine what exactly the Picard’s reaction would be.

“I really screwed up, didn’t I?” His voice sounded empty as he looked up to Vincent, like a child caught red-handed picking into the family’s cookie jar,  dreading the verdict the older man would give him.

“I guess you could say that.” Stoic as ever, Vincent did not for a second seemed moved by his apprehension, and Manuel didn’t know why he’d entertained the thought, even for a second, that his colleague would offer him anything less than reproach. “And I don’t think he’ll let you off the hook with a pack of cordons bleus either.”

Manuel did have to admit that it made him smile, just a small smile though, as he remembered the a overjoyed face Emmanuel had given him that time he’d cooked them perfectly. He’d never really known where Emmanuel’s strange love-story with the frozen food had come from, but it had been something he’d grown fond of, his at times little boyish reactions sometimes all he needed to make an otherwise dull day seem better.

If he was hoping to get back to sharing such mundanities with him, he needed to actually talk to him first. Talk to him and actually make him understand how all of this mess was merely because of a misunderstanding on his part born out of Emmanuel’s absence and Manuel’s jealousy. A misunderstanding that had fuelled his anger and enabled him to hurl hurtful things at him, hurtful things Manuel was profoundly sorry for. And if that wasn’t enough, Manuel also knew that he would have to pick and choose carefully what words exactly he would offer him to make amends (and the art of stringing words together was Emmanuel’s speciality, not his) and to keep his features in check, knowing he could come across as quite the intimidating man even when not necessarily looking to be so. Scaring the blond off before getting the chance to offer him a full apology definitely wasn’t something that was on his to-do list.

“I guess a simple “I’m sorry” won’t exactly cut it either, right?” Well, Manuel kind of knew the answer to that one, and was pretty certain that Vincent would show himself to be merciful towards him despite his supplicating look.

“No, I don’t think so.” The Suresnois actually frowned. “But why haven’t you two _talked_ it out? How come you even let it get this bad in the first place? A civil conversation between two adults and solving your issues with an _actual dialog_ can’t be _that_ hard, right?”

 _Yes, yes it was_ that _hard._ But hearing the words come from Vincent himself only made him fully realise how absurd the whole situation was, Manuel slowly coming around to that fact that had both he and Emmanuel actually sat down and _talked_ , they might have avoided a sheer lot of unnecessary problems. Perhaps his fears of verbally hurting hi weren’t unfounded, and perhaps Manuel did have a tendency to let his anger get the better of him, but nevertheless, the possibility that he could have avoided all of this if they’d actually _talked_ like adults, like _a normal couple,_ didn’t seem all that scary when looking at it now.

“I didn’t… I…” Justifications and cover-up stories were rather pointless now, Manuel knew there weren’t many arguments left he could use to defend himself, especially when it had been a while now that he’d known that he was the one on whose shoulders lay most of the blame. “I don’t know.” He sighed, utterly drained, shoulders slumping forward, the past three weeks of solitude, fatigue and angst finally catching up to him. “I don’t know why I even allowed myself to get so worked up in the first place: jealousy, passion, both perhaps, I’ll let you decide. Looking back, it was still stupid, perhaps he _had_ only been sharing his love for books with Trudeau, and perhaps I _was_ jealous because he hadn’t called me at all, but… I _know_ I shouldn’t have said what I said.” Manuel rubbed at his temples, hoping the soothing motion might quell the migraine accompanying his sentimental confessions to Vincent that had slowly but steadily gotten on his nerves.

“You do know _I’m_ not exactly the one you should be saying all of this to, right? Don’t get me wrong, a humble apology from the likes of Manuel Valls is always nice, but in this case, I think Emmanuel might be a better candidate for your heartfelt regret.”

He’d expected Vincent to still be making the most out of his few years over him, use that reproachful and disappointed mannerism a little longer –God knew he liked to abuse of it at times- but his encouraging smile and raised eyebrows almost came as a surprise, the other man all but silently asking him what on earth are you still doing here then? _Don’t you have a boyfriend to woo back?”_

Manuel wanted to hold a grudge against him for laughing at him, he wanted to tell him that this _helpful suggestion_ (as Vincent put it) of his was nothing but fairy dust, he wanted to tell him that this wouldn’t work for him but he’d barely opened his mouth to protest the elder’s silly idea that already Vincent had cut in.

“Oh, and if I recall correctly, I think I heard Ayrault say that he might be letting him leave at nine instead of ten this evening. Just thought you might want to know.” He added innocently.

Manuel threw his now empty coffee cup in the plastic bin all the while he _glared daggers_ at Vincent, before actually deciding that, screw it, he might as well do something to remedy the situation.

Vincent was _still_ grinning like a Cheshire cat as he stormed off.

If he was hoping to get back into Emmanuel’s good graces, he knew he would have some _serious_ and sincere apologizing to do. Manuel knew it wouldn’t be pleasant, and it _definitely_ wouldn’t be easy but as he stormed out of the studio, off to the closest Jeff de Bruges (the one on the corner of the main street, just opposite the official library and the watchmaker), he thought perhaps a small box of chocolates might be in order for the other man.

And if his mind wasn’t playing any tricks on him, he thought he could recall Emmanuel having a particular fondness for the ganache truffles.

* * *

 

Ayrault ended up freeing them at ten past elven that night.

So much for taking Emmanuel aside and actually getting a chance to explain himself and properly apologise to him.

The younger man hadn’t spoken to him all evening, had even narrowly avoided a conversation with him as he’d turned around and rather clumsily tried to engage with Jean-Luc, anything to ignore Manuel really.

He’d lost him for good though when Ayrault ha finally called it a day, everybody in even more haste than usual to scurry off home due to the hour. Manuel had joined the flow only to stop at the door, determined to catch Emmanuel on his way out if the other was going to try and keep running away from him, and even if he didn’t want to talk, Manuel wouldn’t force him to, he just wanted a chance to explain himself and, more importantly, apologize for what he’d done to him, to _them_.

Benoît had even wished him good luck from under Arnaud’s shoulder as the pair had headed home, Manuel trying to ignore the Breton’s optimism and his taller, curly-haired partner’s encouraging wink (but did have to admit that his friends’ support _did_ mean a lot all the same, especially in the face if what awaited him).

Fifteen minutes had already passed since De Rugy himself had offered him a good night and the flow of employees leaving the building complex had considerably thinned out and yet, still no trace of Emmanuel. Manuel ended up having to turn back, double checking the remainder of the open offices, and what other storage rooms happened to not be locked under key yet. Unsuccessfully.

Having paced back-and-forward in front of it several times now, he’d been about to knock on Hollande’s door, a thin light filtering out from under the seam at the bottom, but when the echoes of a rather animated phone call could be heard through his director’s door, Manuel opted against it, judging that the latter would probably not appreciate him interrupting what was a private conversation he had no business listening in on.

Besides, why on earth would Hollande know the whereabouts of his employees anyway? In addition to coming off as extremely unprofessional on his part, Manuel could safely assume that Hollande _probably_ wasn’t keeping tabs on them at all times since it wasn’t neither his job, and the plump man definitely wasn’t the stalker-type regardless.

Sighing, running his hand though his hair. He was _certain_ he hadn’t seen him walk out of the building, where could he possibly be hiding then? Both the locker room and the computer room with all of the administrative paperwork were locked and Manuel had already tried the canteen (and the elderly cleaning lady had given him an odd look, probably wondering what on earth he was doing there at such an hour), and apart from the small room they sometimes all shared coffee in during a long break, Manuel didn’t really think there was anywhere else-

_The stairs._

Or rather, Manuel noticed the _open_ door to the staircase leading up to the roof, the cool wind blowing into the room, sending unwanted chills down his spine. Not thinking twice, he closed it behind him before taking the steps two by two.

The utterly _freezing_ winter air felt like he had been punched in the face as he pushed the door over slightly, Manuel drawing his coat closer around himself so as to avoid any chilly drafts seeping in.

Down below, Parisian nightlife was in full-swing, as he could still make out the unmistakable sound of hurried car engines and a few rowdy party-goers from the bars lining the Southern road, even the beat of a nightclub two blocks away was loud enough to make it all the way here (Manuel didn’t exactly understand where youngsters got the appeal of turning on their music so loud), and to watch it all from afar, as if he was merely observing a tableau of frantic daily life in the capital he was not involved in, was almost oddly peaceful.

He’d almost forgotten this was something he used to do with Emmanuel, how much he’d enjoyed just taking a moment for themselves, stop time for the pair of them and watch life go on without them. He hadn’t had the heart to come up here since their argument.

A gust of breeze sweeping up what must have been one of the leftovers of Vincent’s cigarette drew his attention, Manuel following the ashes’ course until a he actually noticed him. And his heart clenched almost immediately at the sight of him, hard.

From where he was, curled up against the wall, Emmanuel probably couldn’t even see him, since he had his head buried in his knees. Manuel couldn’t make out his facial features but certainly did notice his trembling shoulders, and putting two and two together from there wasn’t exactly rocket science.

_He was crying._

As he got closer, the tiny hiccups were unmistakable, and actually seeing him this broken and this vulnerable, something Manuel had _never_ been privy to, even when they had been together, had him mauling his lower lip until that sharp bloody tang filled his mouth, a wave of guilt crashing upon his already frail and exhausted shoulders.

He took a step forward, almost instinctively compelled to ease his obvious distress but stopped short when he realized the only reason the younger man was in such a state was _because_ _of him_. And to be forced to face it unprepared overwhelmed him with the _guilt_ , wishing in that moment to do nothing more than honestly apologise to the other man and possibly set their relationship on the right tracks. (And, were the blond gave him his ascent, he would have tried to go in for a hug, hoping to help him understand that he _did_ still want him, that he still _did_ believe in them, that Manuel wasn’t about to make the same mistake again).

But that was only if Emmanuel wanted it, for Manuel was well aware that the decision was solely his, and to see him like that, a freezing cold and sobbing mess because of the unfair distance Manuel had imposed on him, he momentarily doubted that Emmanuel would actually forgive him at all. In fact, if the younger man was already willing to so much as listen to what he had to say, Manuel knew he would be lucky.

He’d made a mental note of everything he’d wanted to tell him on his way up here, had organized it all logically, had carefully weighed the impact of each word he had intended on using so as to not end up floundering about for something to say, like an unprepared teenager on exam day, he’d planned it all out because that’s who _Manuel_ was at his core, he’d always lived his life as such: with logic and planning everything out, from what to prepare for dinner for the next day to the minute details of a photoshoot, he’d organized it all precisely not to find himself at a loss… And now that he was actually face to face with Emmanuel, now that he could see him, curled up against the wall, crying, probably completely unaware that Manuel was standing not even five feet away from him, now that he could see for himself _how far off_ he’d actually been when thinking the blonde was doing fine without him, he was at a loss for words, unsure as to handle the fragile portrait of a broken man right in front of him.

He doubted that even Ann Gale’s talent would be capable of rendering the rawness of such distress.

“I… I’m _so_ sorry.”

And no sooner had the words past his lips that he mentally hit himself, _oh come on Manuel, was that the best you could come up with?!_

“I know me saying sorry doesn’t quite cut it, not in a long shot, I know that… But, I wanted you to know that… That I’m sorry for what I said, what I _did_. I’m sorry I hurt you like that, and that it was _entirely_ unwarranted.”

Emmanuel nearly jumped out of his skin at the sound of his voice, a confession Manuel had uttered rather quietly, his head almost whipping to his right, abruptly, to face him, as if startled an utterly fearful of having been caught like this, in such a pitiful state. He immediately wiped away at his eyes with his shirtsleeve, Manuel guessing the younger man probably wanted him to believe he hadn’t just spent the past half-hour crying his heart you. He wasn’t about to buy in to the act, and besides, the other’s red eyes and tear-stained cheeks betrayed him without him having to utter a word in his defence.

“M-Manuel? W-What are you doing up here at this hour? What do you want?”

“I came to apologize.” He let out in a single breath. And before the other man got a chance to speak, Manuel continued, he’d made the first step in extending the olive branch, and wasn’t about to stop now. “What I said, what I did… I’m really _sorry_ for it all. I know there’s no excuse for it and I’m not looking for your forgiveness, but I just…” And he looked down, too ashamed to look the man he’d hurt in the eye, “I just… Wanted you to know that I’m sorry for what I said to you, for _how_ I said it, nothing will ever justify that. I hadn’t intended to hurt you like that –I really hadn’t intended to hurt you _that_ deeply, _I swear!-_ It’s just that… I had been lonely, I let myself get overcome by jealousy because it was the easy way to deal with it, it was easier than frustration, it was easier than acknowledging that I was frustrated because I never took the first step. It was easier to hate you and throw unfounded accusations your way than question what I hadn’t done myself, to actually acknowledge why I felt the way I felt, what I _was_ feeling. It was easier to push you away than to come clean and tell you everything…. And I know I have no right to be asking this of you now, but… This time I’m ready for us to give it another go, together, for good this time, if _you_ still want to, of course.”

Frustrated and knowing that nothing of what he’d said actually worded what exactly he was feeling, Manuel sighed, defeated. If Emmanuel didn’t understand that he _wasn’t_ upset with him, that he truly did want them to go back to what they had been before he’d royally screwed up, then this whole _wear your heart on your sleeve_ conversation was all for nothing.

Good fortune did at long last seem to pity him however, and Manuel dared to have faith in a change in the winds when he felt Emmanuel’s frozen hand brush his own, reading the delicate gesture for what it was: a tentative peace offering, the younger man trying to reach out to him but too afraid of actually taking the first tentative step.

A glimmer of hope in his shamed-filled eyes, he looked up just in time to come nose-to-nose with the Picard’s, almost daring to seize the second chance he had in front of him, now within his reach. He leaned in, tantalizingly slowly, as if still feeling about to see how the land lay, uncertain still.

Manuel couldn’t really say when locking eyes had stepped up a notch into a shared kiss, but he didn’t really linger on it either when Emmanuel’s hand came up to grasp his hair, his hand tightening around the younger man’s waist, afraid that were he to loosen it ever so slightly, that everything would just come crumbling at his feet, nothing more than a shattered illusion.

“I guess I can take that as I yes then?”

Emmanuel laughed, leaning in and resting his head on his shoulder when Manuel wrapped a strong and supportive arm around his own, starting slightly when his frozen nose nuzzled his neck. Looking down to see his own smile mirrored in the Picard’s features, the Catalan dared take a step further in returning to what they’d been and ruffled his hair, thrilled to see that Emmanuel still tried to escape his embrace while unable to keep himself from laughing heartily.

“While we’re at it…” He ventured after the other man had settled down slightly, “I think I might have half a box of cordons bleus in the freezer back at my place… If ever you were interested?” He left the question open, just in case Emmanuel were to refuse.

“If you cook them on the pan, I _might_ just take you up on your offer.” He winked, _that_ wink, the one he could never do quite right, the one Manuel knew all too well, the one he was familiar with, the one he’d grown accustomed to, “… _And_ stay over for the night, if you’re on board.”

Manuel laughed. And not one of those laughs he’d grown to perfect for when it was asked of him for this advertisement or that one, it was _genuine_ , it was _real_ , it was him, and, more importantly, it was him freely the exact depth of his what he was feeling for the first time in _far_ too long. As he took the lead, heading to his (dare he perhaps call it _their?)_ humble apartment, he couldn’t even hide his amusement when a numb-limbed Emmanuel nearly toppled over, only saved from embarrassingly ending up sprawled out on the ground because Manuel caught him just in time, catching him under his arms. He’d been about to pull him up when, out of the blue, the younger man crashed his lips to his, something warm, familiar and homely blossoming between them once again.

If his impulsivity definitely had caught him off guard, Manuel couldn’t really say he’d needed any further prompting to kiss him back.

“It does look like your on your way to make it up to me.” Emmanuel’s voice whispered in his ear, the Catalan having to keep his firm hand on his lower back to keep him upright.

He let him wriggle his way under his arm, keeping a hand on the back of his neck, at the base of his hair, as they made their way down the stairs together, his eyes firmly locked on Emmanuel’s face, to the point that Manuel probably wouldn’t have bee surprised were he to wake up tomorrow with  a stiff neck. He really couldn’t care less though, especially when he knew that tonight was first and foremost what was about to mark a new chapter, a new beginning for both of them, the first night his double bed wouldn’t feel too vast a space for him, the long-time vacant emptiness finally filled with someone he wasn’t about to part ways with anytime soon.

And while that might have certainly been enough of a reconciliation for your average Parisian couple, while the pair made it back to his apartment in a companionable silence, Manuel could only think of needing to make up for it with something he could physically offer the blonde, pretty certain he would be dropping into the local library in the next few days to pick up a new rendition of _La Symphonie Pastorale_ as soon as he’d have the time (if he recalled correctly, he’d noticed that Emmanuel’s copy was hanging by a thread, he would probably appreciate another copy). For now though, sharing a hot meal was the first thing he intended on doing once they got back, not anything fancy now, but something he knew would be appreciated far more than cloying and expensive delicacies, something they could toast to as an official reconciliation of sorts.

And so to the literary prowess of René Char and _Fureur et Mystète,_ hey indeed share a rather simple meal, Manuel _somehow_ unearthing _cordons bleus_ somewhere in the back of his freezer, before comfortably settling down in the large sofa in the centre of his living room, Manuel in the left corner and Emmanuel at his side, not even a moment of hesitation, neither one really noticing their interlaced fingers.

And when Manuel opened his eyes the next morning to a scruff of blonde hair on his shoulder, a wide grin on Emmanuel’s face, who had somehow ended up sleeping curled up beside him, and who half-heartedly tried to push him off when he ruffled his hair, he did indeed think that this was something he wouldn’t mind getting used to.

It wouldn’t always be easy of course, but as he looked down _–and smiled-_ at their intertwined hands, _together,_ he thought that perhaps it was the first step in the right direction.

**Author's Note:**

> A few additional ANs for the French references you might not get:
> 
> * In France, there is a division between the south easterners who say chocolatine and the rest of the country who way “pain au chocolat”, which has lead to online “wars” as to what the right appellation is (it’s pain au chocolat, if you want to know). It’s all in good fun though. Jean-François Copé sort of got involved in the thing when he mispriced the pains au chocolat, thinking they were around 70c, when they actually cost around 2€10 - 2€30.
> 
> * Although he's a French politician, Manuel Valls is actually part Catalan, since he was born in Barcelona. His father is Catalan/Spanish and his mother is a Swiss-Italian.
> 
> * If you were around for the debate between Macron and Le Pen, you might know that’s where he came up with the infamous “poudre de perlimpinpin” line, which got a musical remix on You Tube that went absolutely viral. The English equivalent to poudre de perlimpinpin would be something along the lines of fairy dust, it’s basically “something that sounds miraculous but doesn’t actually do sh*t”. It’s certainly not as cool but I honestly didn’t really know how to translate it otherwise.
> 
> * Sylvain Durif is “a famous wierdo” who went viral on You Tube a few years ago because he (apparently) thinks he is some sort of reincarnation of Cosmic Christ who was abducted by the Virgin Mary’s spaceships as a child. He also wanted to run for president this year, but didn’t get enough signatures to present himself as a candidate. Nobody really knows if he’s just amazing at trolling everybody while keeping a poker face of if he’s genuinely a wierdo.
> 
> * Galettes, kouign amann, galettes de Pont-Aven and caramel au beurre salé are (amazing) Breton specialities, because Benoît Hamon is a Breton politician. You should look them up, because they taste like haven. (And trust me, I live in Britanny :))
> 
> * Alexandre Dumas, Arthur Rimbaud, François-René de Chateaubriand, Stendhal, Albert Camus, Charles Baudelaire, Louis-Ferdinant Céline, André Gide, Paul Verlaine and René Char are all famous French littérature figures. And if I recall correctly, Valls likes Dumas and Macron enjoys Gide.
> 
> * Cordons bleus are "ham and cheese scallops” in English, but I think cordon bleu is really culturally marked in France as that one dish you’ll find in kids’ school canteens. And, to make it brief, basically Macron really loves them (cause he’s actually a five year old sometimes) and there's a clip that went viral about him at a cafeteria at a motorway rest area where he tried to get some for lunch but got turned down because the cordons bleus "were on the children's menu". (The clip is also on You Tube I think).
> 
> * Anyway, I *think* that’s all the cultural references that might have needed explaining. If there’s any more you don’t get/want explained, feel free to ask away here or over on Tumblr! (‘name’s also verllaine :))


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